First Contact
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: A series of Engmano one-shots. Rated for "smut lite" in the occasional chapter. Most chapters will be rated T for language. Now contains "Pen Pals" and "Romano's Awakening."
1. Dark Encounter

_England gets more than he bargained for when he tries to spend a lunch hour rummaging around in one of America's hotel basements._

_..._

**Dark Encounter.**

Bloody meetings. England headed down to the hotel's basement; America had said there was some old memorabilia down here, and he wanted to look at it. A few employees nodded at him on the way, but no one stopped him. He planned to spend the entire lunch break rummaging through whatever he could find, and reminiscing.

He found the correct room, entered it, switched on the lights. Blasted America! This room was totally stacked with _junk!_ He wandered through the high stacks of crates, reading the stenciled information on the sides, wondering where to begin. It wasn't even arranged by date. Not really arranged at all.

Snap! The lights went off. Sighing, the island nation tried to find his way back to the light switch by feel, groping crates on the way for balance. Maybe the lights were on a timer, or maybe an employee had come by and switched them off, thinking the room empty.

With a few quiet steps he sensed himself to be back in the cleared space inside the doorway. He put his arms out to brace himself, feeling like a bloody zombie as he stepped along. His hands then touched something warm and resistant, and he pulled them back wordlessly. Someone was in the room with him.

In the dark.

England didn't speak. Who could it be? Why would the person have switched off the light if he or she had been planning to stay in the room?

Warm hands grabbed him, and he had no more time for deductions, as a pair of warm lips were pressed to his, and a pair of arms wrapped firmly around his waist.

England loved kissing, feeling his tongue stroking someone else's, sharing that intimacy and letting it build to a frenzy. He would kiss anyone, anytime, but for the possible repercussions afterwards. So right now he leaned into the kiss, getting a little more aggressive, feeling the other's mouth respond eagerly. After all, nobody could blame him for this!

Mm, this was delicious. He wondered who it was. Not America – the hero was taller than England, and whenever they kissed, he got a crick in his neck. No, this person was about the same height as the island nation, and he could now tell it was a man, because their bodies were pressed up against each other quite tightly. He slid his arms around the other bloke and cupped his arse, still teasing and demanding with his kisses. God, this was exotic, and like a little slice of heaven. This git certainly knew what he wanted. That tongue! England almost moaned, but he wanted to preserve the hypnotic anonymity, so he didn't do anything to give himself away.

Seconds later the kisser drew away. Was that all?

But no. Hands reached for his belt buckle. _You're kidding,_ he thought, but stayed quite still to see – to feel – what would happen.

_Oh._ That hot mouth put itself to work on him, strong and masterful. England threw his head back and arched his back, trying to get more of himself between those devouring lips, that warm wetness…This was _so good! _He held his shirttails out of the way and savored it. Oh, he hoped the guy wouldn't stop…England didn't ordinarily like giving head, but he'd do it to this git just to pay him back for this awesome, mysterious, frantic – ah, _ah…_

When his shaking had ended he felt the other man rise to his feet; England hurriedly undid the other's belt to show he wanted to play. He felt the man still; the blond fixed his own trousers before dropping to his knees and getting to work.

He really, _really_ wanted to know who this was!

On the other hand, what if it was someone he didn't like? That thought caused a hitch in his rhythm and he focused again, now knowing he'd go to great lengths to keep himself anonymous.

This chap must have been just as hot for it as England had been. The blond worked his tongue up and down in the most powerful way that he could, trying to make it as good for his partner as it had been for him, sucking and licking with passion. He felt the hands pulling his head closer, just before he felt the man tense; his climax filled England's mouth. The blond swallowed it and stood up, pulling the stranger to him for one last feverish kiss, and then he hastily sneaked off to hide behind bloody America's packing crates.

The island nation didn't intend to spy on his playmate. This had been so shocking and perfect, like something from a wild fantasy…yeah, he'd rather not know who it was. He crouched down behind a stack of crates, facing the other direction, and heard the door open and then close.

Ten minutes later, during which time he'd fought to calm down, he scurried to the light switch. Nobody here; that was good. He gave himself the once-over to make sure the buttons and buckles were all properly fastened, and then turned off the light again, leaving to return to the conference.

…

"Wow, that was fast, bastard," Romano grinned, seeing Spain seated at the conference table.

"Lovi! I'm sorry I didn't get down to the basement. I'm so sorry! _Francia_ had to talk to me about something. I hope you weren't bored without me?"

Romano sank into the chair next to Spain, feeling the blood drain from his face. "Y-you're shitting me," he blurted. This had to be Spain's lame idea of a joke! Didn't it?

"No! Why, where did you go?"

Uh. "I – had to run some errands," he managed to lie. "I'm tired. Let me rest." Without waiting for Spain's answer, he put his head down on the table, hiding it in the safety of his arms. Fucking hell! He'd kissed some random stranger? He'd given some total stranger a –

But some total stranger had done it for him, too, and dammit, hadn't that been good…he smiled a little crazily, remembering it.

Fuck! Who the hell could it have been?

His eyes darted wildly back and forth as his mind tried to reason it out. If it was a hotel employee, no big deal. Romano was positive that the other bastard wouldn't recognize him. It was a _basement._ No windows, and the lights had been off. No, he wasn't worried about hotel employees.

He was worried about nations.

Romano thought about it. Well, it had been a bastard, and not a girl, obviously. Though that only ruled out a few. What other clues did he have?

Well, it was America's hotel. He smirked at that thought. It was definitely someone who was really very fucking good with his mouth, and who – _aha._ Someone who was just about Romano's own height. He hadn't gotten that pain in the neck he always got when making out with Spain. "Hah," he muttered, thinking about Spain being a pain in the neck.

"Lovi?"

"Ah! Nothing, bastard, just thinking." Not America, then. Not any of those tall bastards: Netherlands, Denmark, Russia, Sweden.

Were there any other clues? Nothing he could think of. Well, the bastard had been wearing a belt. Everybody wore belts, though, except maybe Poland. Maybe he could tell by looking at their faces? See who looked embarrassed, or excited. Did he have the balls to do that? Because if _he_ had been on the receiving end, he'd damn well be looking for clues too. If he met the eyes of the anonymous bastard, could he keep from blushing? (No. He could feel himself blushing already, and he was hiding his face.) Could he keep a straight face? Maybe he should just leave the meeting.

That might give the other guy a clue, though. Romano didn't want to be recognized, didn't want anyone knowing he was the other man in the basement. It could only lead to trouble. The only way out of this was to sit through the fucking meeting and act nonchalant.

But Romano was the world champion at _not being able to act nonchalant_. Dammit!

Well, he had to do his best. "Will you get me a coffee?" he yawned to Spain, before sitting upright. At least if he had a mug, he could hide his face by drinking, or pretending to drink. Worst case, he could put his head down again and get some sleep, though that might be a giveaway. At the very least he'd be embarrassed if America yelled at him in front of everyone. Yeah, coffee would help.

"_Sí_, I'll bring it right away."

Romano watched him go. He wondered if Spain and France had been fooling around over the break. He and the tomato bastard didn't have an exclusive relationship – they both liked to fuck around, so they just got together as a sort of fallback position. Stealthy meetings like the basement one (he blushed again) were their way of adding spice to sex that had, admittedly, gotten a bit stale over the years.

At least the basement bastard hadn't been France.

Nations began to trickle into the room; Romano tried to watch boldly, with a dispassionate glance. Spain returned with the coffee, and he began to drink. "Thanks."

The elder nation ruffled his hair. "No problem, _mi tomatito._"

Rather than snapping at his friend – for both the stupid term of endearment and the hair-ruffling – he gazed leisurely around the room. He could do this! He could easily reason it out, while staying in control.

Easy to rule out all the short ones too. And it couldn't have been Poland (as he'd guessed), who was in a red dress. Then Veneziano tripped in with the potato bastard. _Shit!_ But no, Germany was too tall. Thank God. That would really have been beyond the pale. But then – fuck, what if Romano had been making out – and, uh, uh – with his _own brother_? He rubbed a hand over his face. If that was the case, he absolutely did not want to know!

"Hello, _fratello_ and Spain! Germany and I had a wonderful lunch hour, ve. We found a great Italian restaurant down the road."

Romano felt a severe relief at those words. "Good," he managed, sagging in the chair. Very good. "T-tell me about it later." He didn't want any distractions right this minute.

His eyes continued to rove around. None of the Asians – they didn't wear buckled belts. Good, that took out a whole bunch of them! He now wondered if anyone was staring around, seeking the mystery partner. But nobody appeared to be. Ah, maybe he was off the hook. Maybe it was just a hotel worker.

But if it wasn't? There were a lot of nations in relationships, and he would expect (though he couldn't be certain) that none of them would have been poking around a storage room, ready for action. He snorted again as the albino potato walked into the room grinning insanely. Uh? "Dammit!"

"Excuse me, dude?" America scowled at him from the front of the room.

Several nations turned to look at the explosive Italian, which was exactly what he didn't want! "Sorry," he muttered, face buried in the coffee mug.

America cleared his throat and began speaking again.

But no. Romano relaxed once more. Prussia was too tall as well. With that thought in his mind he reviewed the ones who were left. No clues there. Too many to narrow down.

So, he now tried to think about the psychology of the individual. Could he rule anyone out based on his personality? He finished his coffee and glanced at them one by one.

Hah. He'd just bet it wasn't Switzerland, or England. Both of those bastards were very cold. Swissy would have shot him right at the outset; England would have shouted and started fighting. What about Greece? No. They'd slept together before, now and again, and Greece was always a very leisurely lover. He'd never have been that energetic. Canada, too meek. Hmm.

Romano shifted in his seat, reliving the encounter. Would – would he really want to know who it was? Would it make a difference?

Yes, he admitted. It might. Even though he'd thought it was Spain, he could remember feeling more passionate, more intrigued than usual. The person would be a red-hot lover, he could tell. And that – that would be awesome. A great change of pace. He picked up the empty coffee cup and grinned into it, not wanting to look like some kind of goon. But a relationship with someone who gave as good as he got? Could be very fucking intriguing!

By now Romano felt calm enough, safe enough. Nobody was going to leap up and point at him, accusing him of molesting them in the basement. If anyone intended to make a scene they would already have done it. He set the empty mug down and relaxed a little more, listening to America's presentation about auto emissions and the need for more stringent regulations.

The afternoon ticked on. Everyone seemed to be zoning in and out. Part of Romano's mind was still trying to deduce his partner's identity, but he also put his mind to the meeting. It was getting more and more difficult to focus, though.

"Iggy!" America suddenly barked; everyone in the room turned to look at England, who was red-faced and blinking like a sleepy owl. "Wake up and pay attention!"

"Sorry," the island nation muttered, staring down at his paperwork.

"Seriously? If you can't stay awake for the meeting, man, maybe you should leave."

"I'm all right, git!" England exploded. "Just a little sleepy. If your presentations were more interesting, then –"

Pfft. That was true; this afternoon had been one dull meeting.

"Shut up! Shut up! Pay attention!" America threw his laser pointer at his old mentor; England fielded it and flung it back at him.

"Grow up, America," he said calmly, and lay his head down on the table, in his arms.

Just as Romano had done.

He felt the blood rising to his cheeks and ignored the host as he began lecturing again. _C-could_ it have been England?

Ah, that was stupid, he told himself. Lots of people get tired and bored at these meetings. Didn't mean a damn thing.

Still. He kept darting his eyes back to the tea bastard periodically, just in case.

After a while he conceded that it was probably not England, who hadn't sat upright yet. He had probably fallen asleep again. Romano checked the clock; less than an hour to go, unless America ran overtime. He checked on England again, just for the hell of it.

This time, the blond wasn't sleeping. The green eyes, nearly hidden by the messy hair, now peeked warily out from behind the protective circle of his arms. Romano held his breath as he watched the calculating glance flicker from face to face; he managed to look away, with his heart pounding, before England could meet his eyes.

And if it _had _been the tea bastard…? Romano spent the whole rest of the hour thinking about that, and missed every fucking thing America said.

When the hero finally adjourned the meeting for the day, everyone stood up and chattered as they prepared to leave. Romano cut his eyes to England again; that nation still seemed a bit bleary and slow.

"Coming to dinner, Lovi? _Francia _knows a good place to go!"

"Ah, no, bastard, I have – have plans," he waffled, hoping Spain wouldn't press him.

He was safe, though. "Okay! See you later!"

"Later," he muttered, shoving through the crowds to England's side.

The blond had risen from his chair and busily packed items into his briefcase. "Romano," he said pleasantly.

"Hey, bastard. Would you like to have dinner?" he asked, blushing furiously, but determined to go through with it.

England's eyes widened, and he blushed too. "S-sure. Do you have someplace good in mind?" His voice was breathless. Was it also hopeful?

"How about the basement?" Romano gambled with a grin, and was rewarded with the brightest smile he'd ever seen on the island nation.

"Oh, yes, please," England laughed, grabbing his hand, and they fled the room together.


	2. I Am a Rock

_Very loosely inspired by the Simon & Garfunkel song of the same name, but with a 263% fluffier ending._

_Paul Simon is reportedly not proud of this song, and that baffles me. It's one of the best melancholy songs I know. One of these days I'll write an entire Engmano story based on the Cure's album "Disintegration," which is even worse (better)._

…

**I Am a Rock.**

"Hey, Romano!" America called out, in the middle of a stream of people leaving the hotel. "We're going to go ice skating! Want to join us?"

"Pfft. No, I don't." He cleared his throat. "Uh, thanks, though."

The hero shrugged. "Whatever!" He hurried out the door after the others.

Yeah. Whatever. Romano went back to his hotel room and ordered room service.

He ate and stared out of the window. This early in December it was already snowing; he could see a lot of fellow nations bundled up and playing in the dark park across the street, bright street lamps illuminating the scene with puddles of light. Spain was the most lively one he could pick out of the crowd. That fucking bastard! And the rest of them: what a bunch of idiots. He moved his chair, so that he wouldn't be facing the window, and pulled a book from his backpack. Reading would calm him down, here in the peace of his lonely room.

…

Another winter meeting. "Come eat with us, Lovi. We're going for hamburgers!"

The half-nation could not believe his ex-boyfriend could so calmly ask him to join a big group of bastards for dinner! Didn't he remember how he'd broken Romano's heart? Why would he want to hang around that tomato-brained idiot? Argh, he didn't want to think about that. If he'd never loved Spain, he never would have cried so much, all those lonely nights..."No!" he snapped. "I'm – I'm – just go, dammit." He grabbed his things and fled to his room, where he sat and tried to read, but that didn't work at all.

Instead, he tried to write a poem. It was not as good as Petrarch, and certainly nowhere near Dante, but he felt that if he persevered, he could achieve that level of skill someday. To help him improve, he pulled out a book of poetry and began to read, trying to focus on the meter and rhyme without getting too deep into the sentiment.

He would not think about Spain, about love. That part of his life was sleeping in his memory, and he was strong now. If he avoided everyone, he could no longer be hurt. Yes, he'd always be alone, but at least he'd be _safe._

…

A meeting had broken up early because of the new snow. This had been a really snowy year so far, Romano realized. Excited nations swarmed outside to play in it, but he slowly packed up his things, intending to go eat a quiet dinner and then read in his room, where none could disturb him.

But one nation had stayed in the conference room with him. "What do you want, bastard?" Romano asked him. Dammit, England always made him a little nervous, with all his arguing and shit. And those fucking eyebrows –

"I thought perhaps you might join me for the evening meal." The blond was acting kind of awkward.

"Why?"

"Because it's dinnertime, and I'm hungry." England gave him a very sarcastic look.

"Shut up! Stupid. I – I meant, why me?"

"Why not you? Everybody else is out playing in the snow."

"Bunch of idiots."

"Be that as it may. Will you – join me?"

"Pfft. No. Thanks." Romano hastened from the room. _Do not get close,_ he reminded himself.

Alone in his room, he watched the snow fall; no one else was visible, and the snow seemed to make a shroud on the streets. It gave the world a silent, safe feeling. Romano pulled out his notebook and tried to write a poem about it, but the memory of England's invitation kept floating into his head, and he repeatedly forced it away. Alone in his room, he would shield himself, feel no pain.

…

Romano stayed home from the next meeting. It was too fucking cold to travel, too dangerous as well. And he also didn't feel like dealing with all those idiots and assholes. He had no need of friendship. Romano spent his days in his extensive library, seeking out and rereading books that soothed his soul, walling himself off from society.

…

England had been arguing with almost everyone today. The Italian couldn't stand how that bastard shouted all the time and called people names. _"Chigi!"_ he finally exploded, interrupting a British tirade against China. "Will you shut the fuck up and let this meeting progress, bastard?"

The blond immediately sat down and shut up for the entire rest of the day.

"Thank you," China told Romano afterwards. "Many of us are going out for Chinese food-aru. Would you care to join us?"

But Romano didn't want to get dragged into any social shit. "No," he said, preparing to leave.

"Suit yourself." China and the others left.

It wasn't until he'd gotten back to his room that Romano remembered England had been left sitting alone at the table, head in hands. Pfft. Served the argumentative bastard right.

…

Russia put nations into small groups for discussion purposes. Romano's group had Prussia, Korea, America, and England. The other three nations yelled and cracked jokes during the small group session. Romano had no chance to participate; he couldn't get a word in edgewise, with those loud bastards shouting and arguing. Yet the tea bastard sat quietly, staring at his lap, making dark abstract doodles on the page of his notebook.

England had been very restrained lately, Romano realized.

Ah, but who the fuck cared? He had no interest in what other nation bastards did. Getting involved could only hurt him.

At the end of the session, as they broke up to go back to the conference room, his eyes met England's briefly, and he thought he saw his own feelings of isolation mirrored there, before he turned away.

…

More snow. Dammit. He hated snow. It was so fucking beautiful, and it just made his heart ache.

"Snowball fight!" Denmark yelled, and everyone burst out of the hotel like a bunch of startled pigeons.

Everyone but Romano, of course. Pfft. Losers.

A-and everyone but England, too. Shit. The blond sat with his eyes on his note pad, ignoring the mad rush.

"B-bastard?" Romano didn't even know what he was going to say.

England waved him away without raising his eyes.

Yeah. Smart idea. Romano ran for the safety of his room.

…

Cold, but not snowing. Veneziano and Germany hosted this Italian meeting well; the potato bastard kept it on track, and his _fratello_ kept it lighthearted, so it didn't bog down into that uptight shit that always happened when Germany ran a meeting on his own. Romano sat in the back of the room. They'd asked him to critique their performances, and he watched carefully, trying to be objective.

Afterwards, a bunch of the bastards grouped up for a meal, including those two. "Ve, come on, Romano!"

Fuck. But he was kind of the host, too; it would be rude not to go. He put his things in the room's storage cabinet and joined them all.

The social part of the meal was, as expected, hideous (though the food was, as expected, delicious). "Where's England?" he wondered briefly, glancing at the big group of nations around the table. The tea bastard was one of the few he couldn't spot.

America laughed. "Pfft. The old man never does anything anymore. Just hides in his room all the time."

_"Oui_," France added. "Still. If he had joined us, he'd just be fighting and embarrassing us all, so it's better this way."

Most of the nations at the table agreed with smirks and laughter, even Romano, who forced it, thinking, _Better they laugh at him, than at me_.

...

When his brother pestered him the next day to join them for dinner once more, Romano declined. He simply couldn't sit through a bunch of bullshit talk like last night. Those idiots drove him up the wall, and anyway, Spain was with them this time. He just couldn't do it.

Instead he walked to one of his favorite little places to eat alone. Entering the restaurant, he bumped into the back of someone.

England.

"S-sorry, bastard." Fuck. Romano couldn't turn around and leave the restaurant! That would be rude as hell, and anyway, the owners had seen him and waved, smiling.

"It's no problem," the blond muttered.

The hostess came up to them, beaming. "Table for two, _Signor_?" she asked Romano.

What?

"Er – no," England blurted out, before he had a chance to answer. "I – I'm leaving." He turned.

Romano retorted, "Stupid. Why won't you come eat?"

England stopped and glared at him. "Why should I? You'll just yell at me and humiliate me, as usual."

"It's not my fault, bastard! You're the one who's always arguing with everyone and calling them names!"

"Wanker," the blond muttered, proving his point. "Leave me alone. It's better that way." He stormed off.

Romano didn't follow. After a few minutes he seated himself and ate a delicious, lonely meal. Yes. It probably _was_ better that way. If he held himself aloof, he would never again have a reason to cry.

…

Would this fucking winter ever end? But of course in Sweden it was bound to be snowy. Romano's room had a little balcony; he decided to go stand outside and watch the snow fall. He tilted his head back, letting the soft flakes fall and melt on him, dazzling his eyelashes and tickling his cheeks. He stood outside for a long time, feeling the warm droplets coursing down his cheeks, feeling his eyes burning in the cold. Damn this stupid snow. Would this fucking winter _never end?_

…

Washington, lunch break: Romano escaped to the famous avenue of cherry trees. Feeble sun sparkled on water; he was full of strange optimism. Starting at one end of the promenade, to get the full effect as he proceeded, the half-nation sensed someone approaching. He strode forward to get away. He didn't want anything or anyone to disturb this unusual peace.

But the other bastard stayed in his peripheral vision; a quick peek showed it was England, craning his neck to view the undersides of the tree canopy. Romano slowed just a bit. Some petals drifted down in the breeze; England slowed his stride to match Romano's. Soon they were meandering along almost dreamily together. "Nice blossoms," the blond eventually offered in a kind of vague tone, watching them fall.

Romano nodded slowly; talking wouldn't hurt, if he could stay cool and dispassionate. "Yes. A little like snow."

Several steps later: "Better than snow. They show the promise of new life, after going through so much bloody cold."

"Cold is good, though." Romano knew that was true. He hadn't let anyone penetrate his armor, and he was proud of that.

This time England nodded. "Cold is best."

They walked onward. Romano turned this over in his brain. Cold _was_ best. Cold and alone, self-reliant. No pain, no tears. "Cold and alone," he repeated aloud, in a distant murmur.

"That's the best way."

"Yes." He knew that. He was not surprised that England knew it as well.

The two nations passed the halfway point before speaking again. Romano was a bit shocked to hear that it was his own voice. "W-warm and together might be nice," he muttered, his chin tucked into his coat collar. Wh-where the hell had that come from? No, no! _I touch no one, and no one touches me. _

England made no hint of a response. Fuck. Romano decided to finish this walk and run for it without another word. Cold and alone was _safest, _dammit.

As they neared the end of the walk, the blond cleared his throat. "I'm willing to try it, if you are," he choked out, in a low, broken tone.

Romano cut his eyes to him without turning his head. The bastard's face, flaming red, stared down at the sidewalk, his steps dragging. The half-nation didn't know what to say. His head kept screaming _Stay safe! Alone is best!_ Yet his hand – and his heart – slowly unclenched, and reached out to the island nation.

When he felt England's hand slide shyly into his, all those defensive walls began to crumble; he began to feel liberated from the icy prison of his own making. "Yes," he smiled weakly, squeezing that hand, blinking back tears. "Yes."

The island nation turned to face him with a soft smile of his own. "I knew that you would understand."

"I knew that you would, too," Romano murmured, as they quietly kissed each other amidst the swirling cherry blossoms.

…


	3. Kicking the Habit

_A little Hetalia High School for you._

…

**Kicking the Habit.**

Arthur narrowed his eyes as he stared into his new math classroom. Bloody Vargas was in this class, too. He was the most ill-tempered student the blond Brit had ever encountered. He made every class miserable, with his yelling and swearing, his disrespect to the teachers. Arthur snorted. Would Vargas never learn that it was better to butter them up? The wanker had detention all the time, that he knew. They'd already had music class together today, and the Italian had been surly and rude to everyone. Blast. Another year of listening to that, probably more than twice a day!

And he could never understand why the other boys always talked about wanting to _date_ him. How could anyone put up with that shite? But at lunches, he often overheard love-struck students daydreaming about being his boyfriend. From the little he could remember, the high-and-mighty Vargas turned them all down. Hah, just another bloody reason to hate him, the stuck-up git.

Whatever. He'd better get in there and choose a seat before he got put in the seat next to Vargas. That would be the frozen limit.

…

"But this is absolutely not right!" Arthur thundered to the science teacher a week later. "I did the bloody work, I turned it in, and it was correct!" He was fuming, positively _boiling_ with anger at this. "It was only a day late!"

Next to him, Francis smirked. "Day late is still a fail, _mon ami._"

Arthur erupted with "Will you shut it, you insufferable frog?" He felt his temper escalating further, as he got angry with himself for losing control like this. While the science teacher stared at him with a sarcastically-cocked eyebrow, the blond closed his eyes and tried to depressurize. A few deep breaths, forcing his hands out of the fists they'd balled into, and he sagged into the chair, not meeting anyone's eyes. "Sorry," he offered, in the vague direction of the teacher.

"Very well, Mr. Kirkland. Detention this afternoon for your outburst."

Bloody _hell._ He ignored the snickers around him and tried to get to work.

…

During the hideous detention, sorting a giant bucket of paper clips according to size, he revisited the scene over and over again, feeling like an idiot. Something about it was trying to trigger a memory, but it kept eluding him, and all he could think about was that his precious years of sucking up to teachers were going down the drain. He'd jolly well better get a grip on himself.

…

The next day in math Arthur tuned out for most of the class, until the inevitable Vargas explosion. He actually stood up and called the teacher a bastard!

And then the Brit's blood ran cold. _I'm just as bad as he is,_ he realized. He shaded his eyes with a hand and kept his gaze on the desktop while the teacher argued with the dark student.

Bugger! He really was just as bad. How had it never occurred to him that his temper was just as miserable as Vargas'? No wonder the git got on his nerves so badly. No wonder Arthur had felt so irritable yesterday after yelling at the teacher. Two bloody peas in a pod.

That made him wonder if blasted Vargas hated him as much as he hated the Italian.

Which, in turn, led him to wonder if he actually could call it "hate."

He thought deeply about this. Probably "hate" was too strong a word. Probably, _probably_ all that Arthur felt was embarrassment, embarrassment at knowing that he could so easily be the disliked bad boy of the school, if he didn't hold himself so tightly in check.

Yes, he and Vargas were possibly the two most delinquent students at the school, when you got right down to it. Everyone else had the sense to keep out of trouble, at least when there was a chance of being caught and punished.

The teacher called out his name, and Arthur jumped. Class had been dismissed while he'd daydreamed! Blast, now he'd get detention for not paying attention, or else for being late to his next class. Maybe both! He jumped up and ran before she could discipline him.

Arthur failed to pay attention to any classes that day. He had more important things on his mind.

…

On Friday, at the end of the day, he loitered around until Vargas was the only one left in the hallway. The Italian stood before his open locker, scowling and packing things up. Arthur sauntered over and casually leaned back against the wall of lockers.

"What do you want, bastard?"

Arthur gave the irritable student a lazy, indulgent grin. "A date," he said, more boldly than he felt. But what did he have to lose? If Vargas said no, it was no indicator of anything. He said no to everyone. If he said yes –

"Why the fuck should I date you?"

"Why not? Bet it'd be a lot of fun together." He elbowed the brunet, growing more confident, and smiling mischievously.

"Fun in what way?" The amber eyes narrowed.

Of course Arthur nearly lost his temper at that baffling question. "I don't know! Any way you like. You and I are pretty similar, after all. At least if we started shouting at each other, it probably wouldn't matter much. But, whatever." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one, tapping it against the pack. Smoking was prohibited on school grounds, but he always lit up on the way home, and right now he needed something to fiddle with. Vargas was driving him nuts. Couldn't he give a straight answer? Maybe the git was just taunting him.

The brunet stared at him, still seeming suspicious. "You mean just a _date?"_

"Hah, well, I meant more than just one, wanker."

"That's not what I meant! Stupid English bastard."

"As opposed to what? Want to skip the dating and elope with me?" He was very amused by that idea, even though he still had no clue as to what the git meant.

Vargas let out a little laugh. "Yeah, right. I meant as opposed to _sex_, moron."

Arthur blinked. "Wow. You don't mess around, do you? Hadn't thought that far ahead, to tell you the truth. Why, do you want to fuck me?" He could feel himself blushing, but held Vargas' gaze with a brave little smirk.

"You dumbass! No! I – you – oh, dammit." The brunet turned back to his locker and kicked it shut with a clatter.

"Well?"

After a few deep breaths, Vargas tried to explain. "The other assholes around here are always trying to get in my pants. I figured that's what you wanted, too."

"Huh. Well, I actually have no ideas about that. Yes, you're bloody good-looking, but I wouldn't ask someone out just for sex. Maybe a good-night kiss on the first date, but…I'd have to work my way up to anything more serious." Again he blushed, but there was no reason to be coy about something like this. He really hadn't considered that level of intimacy yet.

Vargas snorted. "You're not joking, are you?"

"No, I'm not! Think I'd stand here bantering with the school's biggest delinquent for my health?"

"Could be good for you. Widen your horizons."

Arthur shrugged. "Heard that one before."

"Fucking know-it-all."

"And that one too. Listen, make up your mind, git. It's Friday. Thought we could do something out of the ordinary, but if you're not interested – " He let the sentence hang.

"Cheh. Come on, tell me what you have in mind, dammit."

"Didn't even have a plan," he confessed. "Thought about dating you, ran right up to your locker to ask. Give me a minute, yeah?"

"Fine. One minute."

Arthur couldn't decide whether Vargas' smirk was playful or intolerable. He debated punching the wanker in the face, just to get rid of the smirk, but no. "Coffee," he then suggested, tapping the cigarette on the pack again. "To start. Like a recce. Then if it goes all right, we could have a real date tomorrow." He shrugged again.

Before Vargas answered, they heard, "Hey, Lovi!" Oh, it was Feliciano.

"Yeah?" the older brother asked.

"Are you coming home, or what, ve? Kiku's going to come over and study." The Japanese student, behind Feliciano, nodded at them.

Vargas – Lovino – glanced at the smirking Arthur, and then the brunet turned back to give his little brother a grin. "Go on back, idiot. I've got better things to do." He scooped up his bag and grabbed Arthur's hand; they broke into laughter as they fled in the opposite direction.

…

"I – I'm really amazed," Lovino confessed later as they wandered around the town after dark. "I never thought you were such an – an _interesting_ person."

"Thanks. That makes my heart all warm and fluffy."

Lovino punched him. "You know what I mean. Always had you pegged as some temperamental, rude bastard."

"Likewise. Right up until I didn't, if you see what I mean." Arthur crushed his latest cigarette out beneath the toe of his boot.

"Yeah, I see it. Think I'm some kind of idiot?"

"Hey, I figured it out before you did, git."

"Pfft. Maybe I've secretly been watching you and waiting for you to ask me out." His mouth twisted in a grin.

Arthur stopped in place, amazed. He had to be joking – didn't he? "You're joking."

"Yes, I'm joking, you moron."

"Figures. Hey, as long as we're discovering all this compatibility shite about each other, can I give you some advice?"

The amber eyes blinked. "Sure. I don't have to listen to it, you realize."

"I realize." Arthur tried to frame the best way to say this. "In school. When you get mad. Don't."

"Are you kidding me? I'm always mad. It's like a habit."

"Yeah, I understand that. Probably better than you think. But – but if you can keep it under wraps you won't get treated as harshly. I mean, I'm a rude argumentative bastard too, or whatever the bloody hell you called me, but I understand the value of properly sycophantic behavior. It'll keep you out of detention, at least."

"Cheh. What the hell do I care?"

"For starters, you'd be able to spend more time with me." Arthur gave him another cheeky grin.

To his utter amazement, Lovino simply nodded and took his hand. The blond felt his heart leap a little, at that. "You idiot. Come over here."

Bemused, Arthur followed him to the shadow of a tree on the corner. "Don't like my idea?"

"It's a good idea, I'll grant you that."

"All my ideas are good ideas, git."

Ignoring that, Lovino gently took his hands and spoke in a soft tone. "Seriously, bastard…thanks for being so ballsy. I'm having a surprisingly good time."

Ah. That was sweet, and probably pretty rare. He'd better savor it. "You're welcome." Daringly, he leaned forward to kiss his new friend, and felt Lovino pull him closer. _Ah – _

"I've never kissed anybody before," he murmured against Lovino's mouth, after a few otherwise silent moments. "I like it."

Lovino playfully nipped his lower lip and raised an eyebrow, drawing back. "You taste like shit."

"What?" And then again, _"What?"_

"I never kissed a smoker before. You taste like a fucking filthy ashtray."

Arthur fished the remainder of the pack out of his pocket and flung it into the grass. "I just quit."

"Good. Now you've got to stop littering."

"I just went cold turkey! You can't expect me to pay attention to such mundane things as litter." Arthur laughed as the grinning Lovino picked up the cigarette pack and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

"There. Happy? Call me after you've brushed your teeth."

"Git!" Arthur punched him in the arm. "I have more important things on my mind." He grabbed Lovino and pulled him close again.

After a few seconds, Lovino softened a bit. "Mm. I – I think I can deal with it, for now, bastard."

"Good. Give me the pack back." Arthur tried to stuff his hand into Lovino's pocket, but the brunet danced out of reach, laughing. Arthur began to sprint after him; Lovino didn't run too far or too fast, and the blond caught him at the end of the block.

"I threw them away, idiot. Got something better for you."

"Tell me."

"_Show_ you." Lovino slipped his hands into the blond hair before beginning to kiss him again, this time much more vigorously.

"Ah," Arthur murmured, thoroughly happy, "I'm bloody brilliant, I am."

"Yes, bastard, you are. Come on. Walk me back home, and tomorrow we can go on a real date."

…


	4. The Muse of Photography

**The Muse of Photography.**

Lovino had given up being a traditional artist a few years ago and taken up photography. Although relatively young, he was already gaining some fame for his evocative photographs. He often chose to showcase decaying areas, believing they had a haunting beauty of their own. A local industrial museum had been asking for a city exhibition from him; this week, his project was seeking out the places and taking some test pictures with his little camera, just to check angles, lighting, and scene. The day had been productive – he had about 800 shots to look through. That always took a while, though; he'd save it for tomorrow.

When he finally got to them – not the following day but the next one – he found himself very pleased with the outcome. Many of these locations had just the right aesthetic he sought. After noting down the best places, he began to idly watch the pictures as a slide show, wondering if any of them would be suitable to use as is.

Whoa! He sat bolt upright, fumbling for the mouse, trying to scroll back to something he'd just seen. Where was it? Dammit, something had caught his eye – _ah._ There. He'd been standing in front of a decrepit factory, and there – just there, in the left-hand corner – a blond man, face like an angel, scowling as he walked away. Lovino let out all his breath.

There had been a lot of people around there, he remembered. All his shots of the factory had five to ten people in the frame. But this bastard – he took another deep breath. What was he doing there? The factory was closed, had been closed for years; its glassless windows gaped out on the riverfront like tunnels into hell. The nearest street passed along the right side of the picture. Why had the blond been over on the left? Nothing existed on that side but a cracking concrete parking lot, and beyond that, scrubby fields that had once been lush public park.

Quickly Lovino scanned all the photographs from that location, but the man didn't appear in any of the others. Cheh, well, it wasn't like he was going to go looking for the bastard. But his presence in the photograph seemed to uplift it a little; with him on the left, it was unbalanced, just the kind of thing Lovino liked to present. Yes. He'd use that one in the exhibition.

…

As he worked on the "real" shots, with his big camera, his tripod and gear, he continually scanned the crowds for that man, but never saw him. Maybe he'd been a figment of Lovino's imagination, or a ghost. He scoffed at this idea and continued working. He really needed a break, though. Ten more shots and he'd allow himself to be done for the day.

He packed up his gear and schlepped it all towards the nearest coffee shop, where he ordered an espresso and flopped into a comfy lounge chair to wait for it. His eyes drifted shut; on the inside of his eyelids he saw the scowling man again, and rubbed his forehead to get the image out of his brain. He'd bet that if he ever saw the bastard, Lovino would simply glance at him and away again. It must have been the setting that had imbued the blond with such portent.

"Your espresso, sir," an English voice stated. He lazily opened his eyes while reaching to take the cup, and nearly dropped it on his fucking lap. The bastard from the photograph stood before him in a barista's apron, holding the cup out to him.

"Uh! Uh, yeah, okay. Th-thanks." Dammit. He took the cup and set it down, trying not to stare.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm all right," he snapped, and then glanced upwards again. Green eyes. He had sparkling green eyes – "Will you let me photograph you?" he blurted out, before he even knew what he was saying.

Blink. Blink. "Wh-what do you mean?" Those green eyes darted back and forth nervously.

Yeah, that had probably sounded fucking stupid. "I'm a professional art photographer. You – I – I need a subject for an exhibition I'm preparing," he waffled, making all this up on the spot. "You have the right kind of look for it." His voice gained confidence as this idea began to coalesce in his mind. "Do you have a moment?"

The barista scanned the room. "Probably not right now," he admitted. "But I'm done work at three. If – if you're serious about this, I'll listen to what you have to say, after that."

Lovino nodded, feeling the excitement of a change in project plans. "That will be fine. I'm actually done shooting for the day, so if you don't mind me hanging out here, I can rest a little until then."

"I – I can't stop you," the blond replied with a grin, evoking an answering one from Lovino. "My name is Arthur."

"Hi. I'm Lovino Vargas."

"Nice to meet you. Talk to you at three."

"Go on, get to work." Lovino flapped his hand and the blond – _Arthur_ – melted into the coffee shop kitchen.

How fucking unbelievable! It was almost a letdown, going from the idea of the haunted factory to finding the bastard in such a mundane place as a coffee shop. Oh, that's right; he had espresso to drink. He picked up the cup and sipped it, although it was growing cold already.

But this idea he'd had – dammit, he loved it when ideas flew out of nowhere. He would put Arthur in creative outfits, posing him in each picture for the exhibition. Oh, yes. But it would be better – less obtrusive, certainly, and therefore more artistic – to have him almost hidden in every shot. Lovino would know it was him, but possibly none of the visitors to the museum would grasp that the same man appeared in every shot.

The idea snowballed in his mind; he pulled out his notebook and pen and began to make quick notes in his loopy handwriting about styles, outfits, locations. He'd never worked with models before. This would be a great way to ease into that! He really hoped Arthur would say yes.

…

"You must be like my fucking muse or something," he laughed, relaxing over a quick dinner after their fourth day of shooting. Due to the blond's work schedule, they had had to take photographs at some odd hours, with new and interesting lighting techniques. Lovino's mind was on fire with all the inspirations he'd had over the past two weeks, and his art was definitely stronger as a result.

"Hey, I'm just a bloke, you know?" Arthur blushed a little, and picked up his mug of tea.

Lovino smiled fondly at this bastard who had inspired him so much. He'd been shy about the whole thing, trying to downplay all the awesome pictures and his place in them. It was kind of cute.

Surprisingly, they seemed to get along all right. Lovino didn't go out of his way to look for social contacts, because his work took him afield at strange times. (Also because most people were idiots. Cheh.) But Arthur was all right. A bit of a temper, but then, Lovino supposed that if Arthur was the photographer and he the muse, he'd throw tantrums once in a while, too. Isn't that what supermodels were supposed to act like? He snorted. "Thanks, though. I – I suppose we ought to talk about payment, one of these days."

"I thought these were for a museum? They pay you?"

"For this one they will, because they commissioned it. But – but also, I've been considering publishing a book with them in. I know I didn't mention it to you yet, but…" He drifted to a stop and drank some coffee, afraid to see how Arthur would react.

"You're joking."

"No? No, why do you think that? These are the best pictures I've ever taken."

"It's all so overwhelming."

"Does it bother you? I wouldn't want to upset you." He hoped it wouldn't be a problem, though. He'd recently started a blog, late one night, and had begun to get extremely positive feedback, including an invitation from a photography website to be a guest author!

"N-no. I – I think I can deal with it. It's just so sudden, and like nothing I ever thought about."

"You're a natural, though."

Arthur laughed. "Yes, because you want me scowling in all the pictures! That's easy. It's posed and smiling where I have trouble."

"But you look fine when you smile. It suits you."

This made Arthur blush; he looked down at his empty tea mug. "Are we done here?"

"Yeah, I'm done. Come on, bastard. Let's get out of here."

Arthur helped him carry the bags of today's equipment to Lovino's little car. "This is a cute car."

"Want a ride home?" Arthur lived near the coffee shop. It wasn't that far out of his way.

"I think I'll walk. Thanks."

"Right. Well, I'll see you Saturday for our next shoot? Meet you at City Hall?"

"Works for me. Thanks, Lovino."

"Do me a favor. Think about how you'd want to get paid." Sure, Lovino could just give him money, but maybe Arthur – who was so interesting in many ways – would come up with something unusual as payment.

"Got it. Talk to you Saturday." The blond walked off; Lovino headed for home.

…

On Saturday he showed up without any equipment. "Something wrong?" Arthur asked, dressed in the sloppy clothing Lovino had requested. "Cameras all broken?"

"No. I just – well – well, I just thought maybe we could spend the day together, if you're not busy?" He felt himself blushing, dammit.

Arthur laughed merrily. "Of course I'm not busy! I was planning to spend the day with you anyway, in the shoot."

Uh. Now Lovino felt like an idiot. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, right. Sorry. That was fucking stupid."

"But that's okay with me. Where do you want to go?"

"Let's just walk, for now. Did you think about anything interesting you'd like as payment?"

Arthur stopped walking; Lovino did likewise. "Well…yes."

When he didn't speak, the brunet nudged him with an elbow. "What? Say it."

"A kiss," Arthur blurted out, reddening, and turning away. "Sorry," he said to a dazed Lovino. "Don't know if you – but, but I'd like that as payment for all this. Just one."

Lovino knew he was blushing, but a little smile played around the corners of his mouth as he understood. He remained silent until Arthur turned back to him. "Okay, bastard. Counteroffer: a kiss and a date. A real date."

Arthur's eyes opened wider, and he drew a deep breath. "Really?" He sounded so fucking excited!

"Yes, really. The only reason I – I asked you to model for me was because I'm so, uh, so damn attracted to you."

Arthur stepped towards him with a soft smile. "And that's the only reason I agreed," he murmured, pulling Lovino close for the first part of his payment.

…

"When I first handed you your espresso, you seemed really shocked," Arthur said, as they snuggled up on his couch a few weeks later. "Why?"

Lovino explained about the factory photograph, and how Arthur's accidental presence in that picture had begun to obsess him a little. "What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Pfft. Went back to remind myself how bad my life used to be."

"What? What do you mean?"

Arthur took his hand. "I was out of work for a while. Too damn proud to take something at a coffee shop, McDonald's, whatever. Kept trying to get back in the tech industry, and failing. Eventually I ran out of money, and I was still too bloody stubborn to take what I considered a low-class job. So I got kicked out of my apartment, and I moved into that factory for a while."

"You're joking." Lovino shuddered, trying to imagine living in that cold, dirty, abandoned dump. He squeezed Arthur's hand. "You are joking?"

"Nope. But it was probably the smartest thing I ever did. A week of living there and I would have cleaned toilets in a bar just to get back into a real apartment!"

They laughed together, but Lovino still felt disturbed. "So, then, you went to the coffee shop?"

"That's right. It seemed…well…less low-class than some of my other options. Clients come in and out fairly quickly, so I don't have to keep up a chatter with them, like I might have had to do in a retail store, or whatever. Just take the orders, make the coffee, serve the coffee. It's easy. And I get a surprising amount of tips."

"Cheh, stupid, because everybody's hot for you." But Lovino felt bad now, because he'd never thought to tip anyone at a coffee shop before. Well, from now on he would. "Are you doing all right? Money-wise?"

Arthur gestured around the apartment, which was clean and in a good location, though old and small. "Not bad. I actually enjoy the work now. Sure, I'm not making as much money, but I have a hell of a lot less stress. Plus I do get to meet the occasional interesting person." He kissed Lovino, who smiled and ruffled his hair.

"Maybe we'll make a fortune off my art," he said idly.

"Maybe. You're a bloody confident bloke, you know that?"

"I know it. So, you – you go back to the factory sometimes?"

"Just to remember how low I'd sunk. That day that I went for my coffee shop interview, I vowed I'd never let that happen to me again."

"A good vow. I'll take care of you, if you ever need it," Lovino offered; this was as direct as he felt he could be at this stage of their relationship.

"Thank you. You know I'll do what I need to, to take care of you?"

"Sweet boy. Yes, I do know." He slipped his arms around Arthur's neck and kissed him again, holding him close. He'd do everything in his power to keep this remarkable man in his life. Everything.

…

_I picture Arthur taking up camera repair and maintenance in his spare time, and eventually they open a little workshop/studio thing, where Lovi teaches artistic photography and Arthur teaches maintenance, and they serve free espresso to all their customers. Of course they'd be living together by that point, possibly in a little flat above the studio._

_All these chapters were plot ideas I'd considered turning into long stories. As an exercise I'm trying to creatively pare them down to one chapter each. Some of them are one-shots I wrote over the past few years but never uploaded, and there may be one or two that were up on FFnet for a while before I pulled them down. I hope you are enjoying them._

_I'm saving the "Arthur as a FedEx delivery guy" and the "Skirmish Brothers as little kids AU" ideas for later, though, because those I could really enjoy doing in detailed chapters._


	5. The Hand that Feeds You

**The Hand that Feeds You.**

That bloody Norwegian bastard! England was furious. He scurried through the streets of this city – he wasn't even sure where he was, and his teeth were on edge – and hoped to find a place to stay, someplace where he could regroup, plan his revenge…but first, he needed to eat, sleep, and figure out how to get out of this blasted predicament.

Norway had turned him into a cat.

Not even a handsome cat: a scrawny, matted beast. He looked angrily down at big paws that were soaked with the city's rain.

Bugger! Everywhere he looked, booted feet threatened to stomp on his bedraggled tail, or kick him out of the way. He gave an almighty leap and landed on the display shelf of a newspaper stand. Aha. Maybe he could read the papers and discover where he was, at least.

But no. The mustachioed owner shooed him away with a rolled-up piece of merchandise; England jumped for it and turned to hiss at the git.

Bloody hell, where could he go? He hurried into a corner between a building and its staircase, panting and fearful. He was in great danger, not just from the spell, but from the situation. Nobody thinks twice about knocking aside feral cats.

He didn't even know why Norway had done it, either. They'd been sitting around arguing points of magic and the next thing he knew, wham! Here he was. Oh, when he got back to normal he'd get his revenge, all right…he lost focus for a moment, plotting various evil deeds he could do.

"_Buona sera, signor gatto,"_ a rich voice chuckled. He looked up warily.

Bugger. From bad to worse! It was Romano. That nasty little South Italian git would make his life miserable. He was in _Rome?_ That was so many miles from home…how could he get back to Blighty in cat form, all the way from Rome? England tried to cower further into the corner, but Romano hunkered down and reached out a hand. "Are you cold? Are you hungry?"

England couldn't believe it. Why would Romano be nice to a stray cat?

On the other hand, the wanker couldn't possibly be nasty 24/7. Maybe he made up for it by being nice to small furry animals. "Meow," he ventured, sounding weak and scared…more scared than he liked to think. "Meow," this time more bold.

"I won't hurt you."

The island nation (island bloody _cat_, he supposed) put his nose out and tentatively sniffed the proffered hand. That must be some cat instinct thing, he thought; you'd never catch him willingly sniffing Romano's hand or anyone else's, when he was his proper shape!

But before he could react, Romano scooped him up and tucked him into the front of his jacket. "Now, don't squirm, _piccolo,_ just stay still, and we'll get you home out of the rain."

Beyond baffled by this, England did indeed stay still. It was warm and dry next to the Italian, and once they were in his house – assuming Romano did nothing cruel like dumping him somewhere on the way – he could figure out what to do next. He fidgeted a little, trying to get comfortable, and actually fell asleep with his ear pressed up against Romano's chest, lulled by the dark nation's heartbeat.

…

When he awoke Romano had just set him down on the floor. "Let me get out of my wet things, little one, and I'll see what food might be in the house that suits a cat."

England looked up at him with a scowl and tried to make an acid comeback, which came out as "meow." Blast it all.

"Okay. Come into the kitchen."

He crept stealthily forward, still a little worried about the other nation's motives, but when he saw Romano pulling food from the refrigerator he settled a bit, and began to clean his front paw. More instinct, he guessed.

Soon, he had a plate of fish and a bowl of milk next to him on the floor. But he knew cats shouldn't actually drink milk. It was easy to tell Romano wasn't a cat expert. The fish was delicious, and somewhat salty, and it made England very, very thirsty. He needed water. Hmm. With a great leap he arced into the air, landing lightly on the countertop, and padded to the faucet, which he patted with a paw. Would the git understand?

"Wow. That's – wow! You want some water? Of course." Romano hurried to fill a bowl, and the island nation lapped it up eagerly. Ah, that was just what he needed to get that salty fish taste out of his mouth. He nearly emptied the bowl, he was that parched.

Afterwards, he tried to thank his rescuer. "Meow" didn't seem to get the message across, so he walked to where Romano stood cooking his own dinner and rubbed against his leg a few times.

"Happy now? Go ahead, find a place to rest. I'll leave you alone for a while. Just don't go clawing the furniture, bastard."

England would have smirked, if his cat face could do that. Instead, he walked to the corner of the kitchen and sat down, keeping an eye on the brunet while beginning to groom his hind leg. Instinct.

…

An hour later he'd begun grooming the other leg, and Romano had finished his dinner and washed the dishes. "I'm going to read for a while, _piccolo_. Want to sit with me?" The brunet curled up on the large sofa and patted the cushion next to him.

England was wary again. Why was Romano being so nice? He was a terrific git, most of the time. Never spoke nicely to anyone but his brother, and that only rarely. He narrowed his green cat eyes and stared.

"Well, fine. If you don't want to, that's all right." Romano opened his book and started reading.

Damn these wretched cat instincts! A warm lap…he jumped up, unable to stop himself, and decided to sniff around a bit before committing himself to such a sappy position. Very gingerly he stepped onto Romano's thigh and ignored his amused expression to turn in place and finally lie down. Mm. He was certainly very warm…England kept his eyes open just in case Romano was about to try anything funny, but in a few minutes he grew sleepy, and barely reacted when he felt the hand begin to stroke him. Purring began instinctually; he lay on the other nation's lap, purring and half asleep, and dreamed of catching Norwegian salmon…

…

The next morning England awoke, still on the sofa, but Romano was gone. Well, he had probably gone to bed. The island nation jumped down and padded around the house, which he'd failed to explore last night. Hm. Here was the little office, with a desktop computer. Good. Once his host (as it were) had left the house, he could do some research.

The real problem, he considered, wandering back to the kitchen, was how to get back home, or back to Norway, he supposed.

No, first things first. He could go online, look up a method to reverse the spell, and change back, fleeing the house while Romano was out. After he was back in human form, he could easily make his way home, and then, and _then_ start plotting his revenge.

He paced the kitchen angrily, his tail whipping back and forth like a flag in a thunderstorm, trying to dredge up ancient spells that would give Norway a lot of grief for a long time, and so he didn't hear Romano walk into the room, and didn't see the amused smile on the Italian's face. "Well, little one," and England jumped, "did you have a good night's sleep? Are you hungry?"

England realized that he was very hungry indeed. "Me-yow!" He walked over and rubbed against Romano's leg; if the git would feed him, that would help a lot.

The warm hand caressed his skull and his ears a few times. "Very well. Let me find you some breakfast."

…

When Romano left for work England padded immediately to the office and used a paw to press the power button on the computer. He really needed to find a way to reverse the spell!

While it booted up, he wondered what to do about Romano. If he changed back today, should he leave some kind of a note? Or just wait and call or email the git after he got back to London? Hmm.

The computer beeped, interrupting these thoughts, and he jumped up on the chair to peer at the screen. He hoped the paws would be able to make proper use of the keyboard.

_Wh-what?_ He – he couldn't read the screen! England narrowed his eyes and concentrated on the words. Was it because they were Italian words? But he was fluent in Italian!

Trying to calm down, he let his eyes flick over all the words he could see, and – well, it must have been some bloody cat-brain problem, because they didn't even look like words. It reminded him of when he'd first started learning Japanese; the kanji had meant nothing to him, for a long time. He used the mouse to click around but couldn't make heads or tails of anything. Even the pictures seemed distorted.

Well, fuck! He meowed angrily, unable to vent in any other way, and leaped down off the chair.

Ah. Nice chair. He sharpened his claws on it fiercely, hoping that would take away some of his anger. Now he was completely stuck! How could he get back to London in cat form? And even if he did, would he be able to read his own books? It was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to turn pages with a paw. Blasted Norway!

Could he get to Oslo? He paced around trying to work this out. As a cat, he probably would not live long enough to make it to Norway. If he tried walking, he might starve, or get run over, or something. If he tried hitching on a train, he'd get caught and thrown off. For now, England decided, he'd take a nap (because all this drama had been terribly draining) and think about it further when he woke up.

…

That evening, as he sat on Romano's lap with half his brain whirring and the other half enjoying the snuggly warmth, Romano suddenly lifted up his bookmark to place in the book. "Don't worry, little one. I'm not going to dislodge you."

But England's attention was fully on the bookmark. It was a standard cheap one, just a rectangle of cardboard with a dangling tassel hooked through it, but that tassel! His cat instincts stirred again, and he reached out a paw to lazily bat the tassel as it swung through the air.

Romano grinned at this and flicked the tassel back and forth a few times. England narrowed his eyes, but after the fourth flick, he lost all control and rolled onto his back, feverishly trying to attack the floating tassel. Romano swished it around, and England tried to snag it on a claw, and about twenty seconds later the island nation froze as the brunet began laughing like a maniac.

"Oh, little one, you are just a kitten at heart, aren't you," the half-nation chuckled, rubbing England's belly.

"Mrow." He patted the bookmark again. He still wanted to play! Though it was interesting to hear Romano laughing so unreservedly.

"Okay, okay." The Italian flicked the bookmark through the air; England swatted it again, and the two of them played like this for a while, Romano chuckling the entire time, before settling down to nap in the chair together, a paw clasped lightly in the brunet's hand.

…

Three weeks later and England was still trapped here!

Not _trapped._ Not as such. Romano had taken very, very good care of him, and he had a soft and cushy life. They played with the bookmark every night; Romano had had to purchase a stock of extras. Hah.

He hadn't said anything about the computer chair, either. England needed to claw something, and he'd reasoned that since he'd already clawed that chair, he would make it his personal scratching post, instead of attacking all the furniture in the house when he needed to vent. Romano had clearly seen the beginnings of shredded fabric, but other than narrowing his eyes, had said nothing at all. England's life here was very comfortable indeed.

But he did need to get back to London.

Which is why, when he heard voices at the front door one night, he jumped up from the chair and ran to see who it was.

Germany and Veneziano.

_Germany!_

Yes, yes. If he could catch a ride to Berlin in Germany's car, he'd be much closer to both London and Oslo.

Or better yet…could he make Germany understand who he really was? He and Romano had never been close, so he would not have expected the Italian to recognize him. But he'd done a lot of cooperative work with Germany, and that nation had the brains to figure it out. He walked right up to the tall blond and meowed, rubbing against his leg.

"Nice kitty!" Veneziano yelled, scooping him up.

But that was all right. It got him closer to Germany's eye level. He began meowing frantically, trying to pat Germany with his paw.

"Stop pestering my cat," Romano snapped, taking England from his brother and cradling him protectively.

"Ve, I didn't even know you had a cat." Veneziano had to speak somewhat loudly, because England was still meowing at Germany.

"Bastard, you're scaring him." Romano turned and set England down on the floor. "Don't worry, little one. I'll make sure the big scary potato eater doesn't hurt you," he whispered.

"Meow." England went right back to Germany and looked up at him.

"You should get that cat to a lab."

"Meow!" England fled right up the stairs to regroup, and in a moment heard Romano leading his guests into the kitchen. Germany was so clinical sometimes.

Right. Well, he'd need to sneak into the car. It was the only way. He'd just have to be very careful and not get spotted.

…

Romano couldn't make himself go to the world meeting. He was still too damn depressed. His beloved cat, his Piccolo, had run away after meeting the macho potato! It had been almost a month, and he hadn't quite been able to give up hope that Piccolo would come back one day, but so far…nothing.

But he was damned if he'd go to some stupid meeting and have to look at that macho, blond, muscle-bound, terrifying son of a bitch! Romano felt sick at heart, imagining the poor cat out there lost in Rome. Today he'd finally decided to make some Lost Cat posters and go hang them up in the area; they were printing now. He sat in the computer chair, tears in his eyes, and ran his fingers over the torn fabric.

The doorbell rang, and Romano's heart leapt. Maybe it was someone returning Piccolo to him, and he wouldn't need the posters! He raced to the door and flung it open joyously, crashing down to earth when he saw a nervous England standing there. "Wh-what are you doing here, bastard?"

England bit his lip. "It – it's a bit complicated. A _lot_ complicated. But I need to talk to you. May I come in?"

What the fuck? Romano didn't want this antagonistic bastard in his house. "Sit on the porch," he barked, and he came out and sat on the wide porch bench where he'd spent cozy hours with Piccolo. This thought depressed him, but he wanted to know what the stupid tea bastard wanted, so he forced the sad thoughts aside. "Well?"

The blond sat on the other end of the bench. "Er." He heaved an enormous breath. "This is going to sound stupid and unbelievable."

"Say it, then, and go." Romano was a little intrigued, though he'd never show it.

"Your cat. Norway. I, er." He put his head in his hands.

"What the fuck are you talking about? What do you know about my cat?" If the bastard had –

"That cat was me," England blurted out.

Romano narrowed his eyes. "Right. Goodbye." He got up to leave.

"I'm serious." The island nation took his hands away and glanced right at him. "Norway put a spell on me and turned me into a cat, and somehow I ended up in Rome."

This was – was _almost_ plausible enough that Romano sat back down. He knew Norway and England did that magic shit. "Go on."

"I – er – I just wanted to, to thank you, for your kind treatment. You had no – no reason to be kind to a stray, but you took me in and kept me safe. So, thanks."

The brunet narrowed his eyes. "You expect me to believe this? Prove it." But he was terrified. If that cat really had been England – shit! All that snuggling? All those cozy playtimes? No, that couldn't be true. The bastard must have heard about the cat from Veneziano and was now trying to make him fall for some stupid prank.

"What should I say to prove it? That I patted the faucet when I was thirsty? That you never yelled at me for clawing up your office chair? That I despised myself for purring when you petted me?" England's voice was tortured. "I knew this conversation would be difficult, but I had to come see you."

"What the fuck for?"

"To thank you, git! You could have left me out there in the rain that night, but you didn't. You probably saved my life. A-and you kept me safe here, afterwards."

"Cheh." But this was all beginning to sound like it could be true: the chair, the faucet...Romano was glad it was getting dark, because he could speak freely that way; the bastard couldn't see his blushing face. "Why did you go?" he asked, with an ache in his heart. That cat –

"I had to get back to being a nation, of course. That's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard you ask."

"Stupid. I didn't mean that." Romano felt more irritable than usual now, because he was not only trying to converse with someone he didn't know well, but also reconcile his affection for Piccolo with this tetchy nation. "I meant, why that night?"

England shrugged. "Germany was here. I hadn't been able to figure out how to get home, or get to Norway, without getting killed on the way. It's a long way to either of those places from here, especially for a cat on foot. But I knew that if I could hitch a ride with Germany, I'd be a lot closer to Norway. So while you were socializing I ran out and hopped into the back seat of his car. It seemed like my best chance." He stared into the distance. "I – I felt very bad about it. Leaving here like that. Knew I would – would miss you." The blond blinked a few times.

Romano turned his head to stare. He hadn't considered that at all. "Why did you stay so long in the first place, then? Why let yourself get – get attached?" Dammit, he felt like an idiot, talking about this.

"Because I had no way to get home! Have you been listening to anything I said?" England turned and frowned at him, barely visible in the darkening world.

"Yes, all right, all right. Shut up about it."

They sat in silence for a while.

"You're all right now, though?" Romano asked meekly.

"Yes. Norway changed me back and swore never to try anything like that again. I'm still trying to work out a good revenge."

"That's bullshit."

"What? What is?"

"Bastard, you shouldn't work some kind of revenge on him. That'd make you just as bad as he was."

England turned to him in surprise. "That's very mature of you. Seeing both sides."

"I wouldn't want it to happen to me, that's all. What if Norway didn't find a helping hand?" Yes, it was definitely easier to speak to England in the dark.

"I hadn't thought of that either." The blond's voice was apologetic.

"Aren't you supposed to be at that stupid meeting?" Romano then mused.

"Yes, of course. I had planned to talk to you there, but when you weren't at the meeting I asked your brother if you were all right. He said you'd had some personal problems. So I – I thought that if we could have this conversation and there was anything I could do to help, I would. As a sort of payback."

"My brother's an ass." He debated confessing just what had kept him home, and decided to go for it. England hadn't needed to show up here, to thank him, but he had done it – even though it had been a fucking weird conversation. The bastard had known it would be weird, and he'd come down to Rome anyway, because it was the right thing to do.

Romano took a deep breath and plunged on. "My – my heart was broken, when I found y—that cat was missing." Yes. If he referred to it as Piccolo, or "the cat," it wouldn't be so hard. It was only thinking of – fuck, of _petting England_ and calling him cute names. He'd rubbed his nose on England's belly fur! Repeatedly! Dammit, that was the real problem. He tried again. "I thought it had run off because the potato bastard had scared it."

When England spoke he seemed to choose his words carefully. "That comment about the lab would have scared any cat, I think."

"Probably."

"But at least you don't have to worry about the cat any longer."

"Hm. This is still fucking weird, you realize."

"Yes, I realize, wanker."

He thought of something else. "If this is all true, you owe me a computer chair, bastard."

England's voice was quite sincere as he replied, "I owe you a lot more than that."

In the awkward silence that followed, Romano had an idea. "M-maybe it w-would help me," he stammered, "help me get all this straight in my head, if I – if you – would you let me p-pet you?" Dammit, his face was on fire! "Lie down with your head in my lap for a while." Could the bastard do this? Could _he?_

"I could do that." England scooted a little closer. "If you're certain?"

"Yes. Please. I know it would help." Plus it would buy him some time.

The blond shrugged and lay down on his side with his head resting on Romano's thigh, staring out over the front lawn, and the half-nation gingerly began to stroke his hair. They sat for a long time this way, neither speaking, and Romano started to accept that this was a true story, and that because of his own generosity, England was not antagonistic towards him any longer.

This was a surprising thought. Perhaps they could actually be friends now? "Pfft."

"What are you snorting about?" England asked sleepily.

"Just – just wondering if we were friends now, and then I realized how stupid that was."

"I'd hoped we could be friends." The island nation reached a hand up to touch Romano's lightly, where it still rested on the blond hair. "Can't we?"

Romano grinned in the dark. "Will you let me pet you sometimes?"

He could hear the amusement in his new friend's voice when he replied, "As long as you don't expect me to play with your bloody bookmark."

"Then yes," he laughed, taking that hand firmly in his own. "I think we can be friends."


	6. Viva Las Vegas

**Viva Las Vegas.**

Romano woke up slowly, his eyes gummed shut. When he forced them open to check the clock, he saw that it was nearly noon; the hotel room was bright. Fuck. Well, it was too late to do anything about the stupid meeting at this point. He let his eyes drift shut again and lay calmly resting on his side, letting his metabolism work its way up to full awakening, enjoying the comfortable bed.

When he felt the bed shift behind him his eyes flew open and he nearly yelped, but managed not to. Dammit! He'd thought he was alone in the bed! Oh, yes, he was fully awake now. Gingerly, and not really wanting to do it, he went through a mental checklist. He was naked. So – so it was a pretty safe bet that the other person in the bed was naked too. And now that he was checking for it, Romano could feel that familiar ache that meant he'd had sex with someone last night. So…the other person in this bed...who was it?

Pfft. There was nothing to worry about. It was probably only Spain. No big deal, though he really wished he hadn't. His eyes shifted around the room again, and wondered where they were: this was not the hotel room the two of them had been sharing.

These thoughts were interrupted by a muttered "Bugger." This time he did yelp, flipping over, and the other guy shouted as well and rolled off the edge of the bed to land with a thump. "Ow. Blast it. Who -?"

Romano peeked over the edge of the bed and saw England – yes, the fucking brow bastard – sitting naked on the floor, rubbing his head and staring upwards. "Bastard?"

_"Romano?"_

They stared for what seemed like an eternity before Romano's lips curled in a smirk at the blond's nakedness. England too glanced down, shrugging. "Did we – did we –"

"I – I think we did." Romano flopped back down on the bed. Fuck.

"Must have done," the elegant voice said, amused. "Must have been bloody good. There are five empty condom packets on the floor down here."

_"Five?"_

"Heh. And they're all on my side of the bed." England's voice was intolerably smug.

"Shut up."

The island nation climbed back into the bed and covered himself with the sheet, staying far from Romano. "Do you have any idea how we ended up like this?"

"None." Romano stared at the ceiling. "Is this your room?"

"Of course it's mine, wanker! Who else's would it be?"

"Don't be stupid. I'm hung over and confused and maybe not thinking straight."

After a moment England spoke again. "You'd think I'd be hung over, because I can't remember any of this, but I don't feel like it. I feel fine, except for where I hit my head on the nightstand just now."

"That's true. I'd assumed I was hung over, but…cheh, whatever."

"Seriously?" England raised himself up on an elbow. "You can just dismiss an entire night of memory with a 'cheh, whatever'? Especially, er, this?" He gestured to their bodies. "I can't. I've got to reconstruct what happened."

"Y-yeah. That might be smart." Romano nodded.

"Pfft, well, where do we start? Do you remember coming back here?"

"No." He pursed his lips. "We were at a meeting, right? Where the fuck are we, anyway?"

"Er – in a hotel room? What kind of question is that?"

"You are such a dumbass. It's no wonder everybody's always yelling at you. I meant what _country._"

"Right. _I'm_ the dumbass. Git. We're in Vegas. America."

"We are? Oh. Right. We are."

"Dumbass," England muttered sarcastically.

Romano ignored that; it was clear that the bastard was going to give him shit about that all day, so he'd better focus on the discussion. "The meeting ended, and I – what? What did I do?"

"With whom are you rooming this time?"

Wow. Stuffy language. "Spain, of course. I always room with him."

"Hmm. Well, you probably didn't mistake me for him, anyway."

"I don't sleep with Spain anymore," Romano confessed. "He couldn't stay monogamous, so I gave up."

"He does like to wave that prick around, I've noticed."

This offhand comment made Romano snort. "Whatever. What did _you_ do when the meeting ended?"

England thought about this. "France and someone wanted me to join them for dinner."

"America?"

"No, he went off with someone else. Blast it, this is going to drive me insane!"

"You're not the only one…_dumbass._ Where did you go for dinner?"

"No idea. There may have been bumper cars involved."

_"What?"_

"You heard me. I – I'm pretty sure we went to some kind of theme park or something. I wouldn't swear to it, but I have a very strong memory of bumper cars. You?"

"Nothing like that at all. I feel like I was at a formal dance or something. Lots of bastards in tuxedos. And – and a choir?"

They glanced at each other quickly, and then, embarrassed, looked away. "This isn't helping much."

Romano disagreed. "It might. How well do you know this city?"

"Pfft. Not that well. I'm sure any city has a place with bumper cars. And Vegas is full of casinos, which would have lots of _bastards in tuxedos_. No idea about a bloody choir. Maybe you went to a show? I'm trying to think about dinner first. Where I ate, what I had, who was with me."

"I was with my brother," Romano suddenly remembered. "He was bitching because he wanted Chinese food but we couldn't find a place."

"Was – was Germany with you?"

"Of course he was. He and my _fratello_ are joined at the hip. His stupid brother, too. I remember being pissed off at him because he kept patting me on the head like a fucking puppy."

"Anybody else?"

"I – I can't remember. Dammit!" He punched the mattress and rolled to face the blond.

"I would suggest we retrace our steps," England then mused, "except that I've no bloody idea where to start."

"I know that. But – but listen, we must have been drinking or something, if we've forgotten everything that got us to this – this bed." Dammit, he could feel himself blushing.

"I don't often do hardcore drugs anymore, and I don't feel like I had any last night. I'd bet it was nothing like that."

"Hypnotism?" Romano wondered, feeling stupid as soon as he'd said it. "I mean, yeah, that's idiotic, but – but maybe?"

"I don't know. I don't know who'd want to hypnotize us, or why."

"Especially why they'd want to hypnotize us into sleeping together," the brunet agreed.

England's voice was meek as he asked, "Do – do you have any memory of _that?"_

"No, bastard, I don't. You?"

"Nope. Wish I did. Bet it was bloody hot," he grinned. "Five times?"

"Stupid. It's always hot with me."

England ignored that. "Er. We're supposed to actually be at a meeting right now, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are, bastard. But since it's noon, I didn't see the point."

"It's noon already? Pfft. You're right. No point in going." England rolled over to face Romano and punched his pillow into shape. As they lay thinking about this, he began to drum his fingers on the sheet. Romano watched those green eyes begin to rove up and down his body, and he began to blush. Dammit. If they'd really – if they'd – shit, he needed to get over this. He squinched his eyes shut and poked the mattress. "Still doesn't explain how this happened."

"Got a question for you. Don't be a git about answering."

"Huh? Well, all right, ask." This could be interesting.

"Have you ever been interested in – in me?"

Romano opened his eyes in amazement to see the blond blushing. The bastard was actually kind of cute that way. He'd never really thought about that before.

Before he could answer, England covered his face and began to speak again. "What I mean is, if you had been, perhaps you just saw an opportunity and took it. That's all."

"Not that I am consciously aware of." Romano tried to match the stuffy tone, but he couldn't maintain it. "Though if I'd ever seen you naked and blushing like this, I might have taken an interest." He reached out and poked England in the ribs. "You're fucking adorable." And he was!

The green eyes flew open again. "You – are you _flirting_ with me?"

"Why not? Of course, it's kind of pointless after the fact." He flopped back down and then sat straight up in the bed, staring at his finger.

His _ring_ finger.

On which there was undoubtedly a ring.

"Uh, bastard," he croaked out. "Uh?"

"What the bloody hell's the matter?"

Without turning his head, Romano extended his left hand to England, who took it and held it. "This isn't telling me anything," the blond laughed, "unless you just want to hold my hand."

_"Chigi!_" Romano yanked his hand back. "It's a fucking ring. On my ring finger."

"That _is_ where people tend to wear – oh, bugger."

The brunet turned slightly and saw England staring at his own ring finger in fear. It had a matching ring. "We didn't, did we? Did we?"

"Th-th-this is Vegas, you know," the blond stammered in reply. "Oh, _bugger!_"

"Don't panic," Romano told him, panicking. "There would have to be some paperwork or shit like that, right? Wouldn't there?" Dammit!

"Yes. Yes. Okay, right." England let his hands fall to his sides before pushing himself into a sitting position. He peeked around the spacious room, as if searching for paperwork that he really didn't want to find. "Er –" he muttered, pointing to an official-looking kraft envelope over by the television.

"Well? Go get it, stupid!"

The blond was distraught enough that he immediately got up and walked over for the envelope, not bothering to cover himself. Romano looked; of course he did. Why not? The bastard was pretty shameless.

He was also pretty hot. _No, focus,_ he told himself.

By now England had come back to the bed and flung the envelope down before sliding under the covers again. "Open it."

"You open it."

Nobody opened it.

"This is ridiculous," the half-nation eventually snapped, ripping open the envelope and dumping its contents on the bed: an official paper, some receipts, photographs. "What the fuck?"

"Let me see." England scooted over so that he was beside Romano, and he peeked over his shoulder at a big photograph, which showed the two of them kissing under a great floral arch. "Wow."

"That's all you can say, bastard? Look at it!" Romano slapped the picture with the back of his fingers. "What the hell kind of stupid shit is going on?" He wasn't even distracted by the naked blond's nearness; he was far too disturbed about this mystery night!

But England had begun to look through the other paperwork. "I – er – I don't know if this is legit or not, but…it's a marriage license."

"Between who and who?"

"Ungrammatical git. You and me, of course! Whom did you expect? Russia and Belarus?"

"Shut the fuck up." Romano snatched the paper and scanned it. It did look legit. It had a raised notary seal on it as well as some kind of city and state stamps. "So…we…are we…_married?_ This can't possibly hold up in court. It's probably not even legal for nations. Dammit." He threw it on the bed and looked through the rest of the papers; England was lost in thought, staring at the photograph.

"Mm."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Nothing. Sorry." The blond lay the picture down on the bed. "What else did you find?"

Wordlessly Romano held up a group of snapshots, showing the two of them in various date-like poses: laughing with their arms around each other, hands on each other's ass; kissing, with an Elvis impersonator in the background; England holding Romano like a bride; Romano carrying the blond piggyback; toasting each other with champagne (this one undeniably against the backdrop of a casino); the two of them smashed into the seat of a bumper car together, kissing each other. "Shit. How the hell did all this happen? Who took the fucking pictures?"

England let them fall onto the bed. "I think I see what happened here."

"Yeah, dumbass, we got married!" Romano couldn't believe he'd said that. He ran his fingers over the ring again. It was a classic, plain gold band. He wondered if there was anything engraved inside it, but he was afraid to take it off and look. This was _freaky!_

"No, I don't think so. Look. This has to be some kind of a prank. It's perfectly logical when you think about it."

"You really think so?"

"Well, maybe not logical, but I can see it being a prank. I still don't understand how we'd get through all this and not remember any of it. But it's certainly plausible that some other nations would get us drunk, or high, and pressure us into these things just to see our embarrassed reactions the next day. You know. If we went to the meeting and exploded with anger, or didn't talk to each other."

"What kind of sick bastards would do that?"

"Are you kidding? Almost all of them!"

Romano thought about that. "Yeah, you're probably right. So – what do we do? How can we find out?"

"The most sensible thing would be to go to this address" – the blond pointed to the legal document – "and find out if there really was a – a – a wedding. Between us."

"True. We've already missed most of the meeting today, so I'm not going to bother attending that."

"And, er," England fiddled with the snapshots, "we should probably act like we – we – like we're happy about this, and excited to be married."

"What? What the fuck would we do that for?"

The green eyes rolled. "You are really a lot more stupid than I gave you credit for. If we act embarrassed and upset, it's going to give them fuel for teasing and gossip."

"Yeah, stupid, but if we act all lovey and shit, it'll still give them something to talk about."

"But they'd be wondering about it, not laughing at our gullibility."

Their eyes met and Romano nodded slowly. "That does make sense." He leafed through the papers again. "Th-there's a receipt here for two rings."

"Who paid for them?"

"Cheh. You. Good thing you're the provider in this relationship. Think you can keep me in the style to which I've become accustomed?"

Amazed, England stared at him, and then they both began laughing. "This might be fun. Pranking them all back, as it were."

"I agree. So, are we going to go to this place?" He pointed to the paper again.

"Sure. But I – er – I need a shower." The blond blushed again, and Romano got a bit of a devilish look in his eye.

"So do I. This bed is all sweaty. Let's have a honeymoon shower together," he teased.

"You're serious?" England raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Why not? It'll help us get in the mood – uh, for the reverse prank thing, I mean, and anyway, you got to use five condoms last night and I didn't get to use any!" Now Romano was laughing, and he poked England in the bare ribs with the ring finger.

England caught that finger in his and gave it a little kiss. "Yes, all right, sweetheart. Let's have a bloody honeymoon shower together."

…

They'd moved to the other hotel bed after their shower, and by dinnertime they were exhausted again, and very happy with each other in many ways. "Didn't get to the bloody chapel," England yawned, cuddling Romano close.

"Who cares? Let's just pretend it's true. I feel really good about you, bastard."

"Mm. Likewise, my lovely Italian wife."

"Chigi! Hey! Who the fuck said I had to be the wife?" He shook the blond viciously, but he was also laughing.

"I paid for the rings, git, so I get to be the husband."

"Fuck." Romano couldn't argue with that, and fell back on the bed. Then he rolled over again and pulled England close, kissing him sweetly. "'Husband of mine.' Dammit, I can't say that with a straight face."

"Then don't say it. Just be mine."

"I will. Wonder what the other bastards will say."

"Pfft. Jealous gits, most likely."

"Shh – listen." Romano nodded towards the door. "What the hell's going on out there?"

Sounds of a scuffle of some sort filtered through the heavy hotel door. "Wankers."

"Do you think they're coming to check on us?"

"Er. Will you have some kind of problem with Spain about this?" England ran a finger up and down Romano's arm.

"No." The brunet kissed him again. "Nothing to worry about."

"Good, because I think someone's about to break into the room." The sounds had gotten louder and more unruly. "If they catch us like this –"

"Let them. Let's just pretend we're asleep. Then it won't matter."

"Good idea." They settled in under the covers, snuggled together, unable to keep little smiles from their faces.

"Ohonhonhon! What do we have here?" France burst into the room, followed by a laughing Prussia with a camera, and a scowling Spain. "Look at the little newlyweds!"

The eyes of the two in the bed slowly opened, and their smiles became grins. "Hi, chaps."

"Go away," Romano added, snaking his arms around England's neck. "What kind of bastards interrupt people on their honeymoon?" They kissed, hearing such a sudden silence that they both shook with suppressed laughter.

"Well?" England demanded to the stunned trio. "Get out of here! Can't you see we're busy?" He yelped a little as Romano's hand found his ribs and pinched him there. "You little tease," he grinned, sliding his hand up and down the Italian's back.

"Prussia," Spain growled dangerously.

"I – I don't get it!" the albino wailed, heedless of the two naked nations now making out in the bed. "I thought for sure they'd freak out!"

"Cheh. Marrying England doesn't freak me out, you bastard. Marrying _you – _well, I'd probably have to commit suicide, wouldn't I? Now _get the fuck out!_" Romano sat up and flung a pillow at Prussia, who still didn't move. France and Spain, one baffled and one angry, each took an arm of the albino and dragged him out the door.

"Sorry, _Angleterre,_" they heard, as the door shut.

Romano rolled his eyes. "Those complete _bastards!_"

"Forget them, temporary husband of mine. You were badass! Give me a kiss."

"Mm, yes. Much better than worrying about them."

"Still," England murmured, "we should find out for certain, tomorrow. Legally and all that."

"Bastard, you won't divorce me if it wasn't legal, will you?" Romano batted his eyelashes coyly.

"Git. If it wasn't legal, why would we need a divorce?"

"Shit. You're right."

"Anyway, I'd like to be with you, whether we're legally married or not. What do you think?" England sweetened the deal with another little kiss.

"Mm, yes, you idiot. I think we've made that abundantly clear."

"Good. Let's order some room service. I'm starving."

"Yes, dear."

…

In the end, Prussia confessed that it had indeed been an elaborate Bad Touch prank: a steady stream of high-proof liquor, the legal forms forged, the wedding photo created hastily in Photoshop. "What about the rings?" England asked, when they'd cornered the albino after the next day's meeting.

"Kesesese! You were so totally in love you demanded we take you to a jeweler! Nothing to do with us."

"What about these pictures, then? Where did you get these?" the blushing Romano demanded, fanning the snapshots out in the albino's face and trying not to look at his own ring.

"No idea. Never saw them before. Hey, I gotta go. Sorry we pranked you, but I'm glad you two are cool with it! See ya!" He ran off.

England took the pictures from Romano and stowed them in his briefcase. "Guess we may never know."

"Who the hell cares? Come on, let's go do something fun."

A lazy smile graced the island nation's face. "Want to go get married?"

_"Chigi!"_

…

_Well, I've been getting a lot of spam mails about eloping to Vegas…_


	7. Pen Pals

_This was formerly a standalone one-shot but all those are now going to be compiled into "First Contact."_

…

**Pen Pals.**

Arthur had frankly forgotten about signing up for the international pen pal exchange several months ago, which is why, when a handwritten letter addressed to him appeared on the dinner table, he had no idea what it might be. He ignored his parents' curious gaze as he opened it.

The blond ate his Marmite toast absently as he read through the brief letter. The English was surprisingly good.

_Dear Arthur,_

_I received your name from a list of possible pen friends at our school. In order to obtain a passing grade in English this year I must show copies of three letters that I sent to you and your answer letters. I hope that this is "all right."_

_So I suppose I should talk about myself a little bit. My name is Lovino Vargas. I am seventeen and in my final year of school. I have been studying English for four years and I think it is very good._

_Please write back and tell me about yourself. _

_Yours truly,_

_Lovino _

_PS – Even if you know Italian, please write in English so that I may practice._

Bloody terse letter. But if the git was just a student – hell, he couldn't even tell if this was a boy or a girl! Though he'd guess it was a boy; Romance language names tended to end in "a" for girls. At any rate, if this bloke was still a student, perhaps he didn't feel confident writing much more in English.

Too bad the response had to be in English. Arthur _was_ studying Italian and he would have liked to practice that, too. That's why he'd signed up for the blasted exchange in the first place. But of course they only needed to exchange three letters. He wouldn't get much practice out of that.

After finishing the homework that was due the next day, he took out a nice pen to write his response. He needed to practice his handwriting, too, and had purchased himself a very pricey fountain pen to inspire him.

_Dear Lovino,_

_Thank you for your letter. Your English is rather good, it's true. I have been studying Italian for two years but since you require your letters in English, I am happy to oblige._

_I am nineteen and attending university, although I still live at home. In my spare time (of which there is precious little!) I am a docent at the British Museum. I love art and although I am not skilled at painting or drawing I do like to look at beautiful works by others._

_What sort of a name is Lovino? I have not heard of it before._

_Please write back. I would like to know more about the Italian culture and schooling, or what you like to do in your spare time._

_Regards,_

_Arthur _

He looked at the letter. It was somewhat blotchy; he didn't write that much longhand anymore, and his hand wasn't used to it. He hoped his oblique question about the name would help him figure out whether it was a boy or not. Then Arthur decided to add a postscript in both English and Italian.

_Mi dispiace mia grafia è così male_._ Se possiamo scrivere un po ' in italiano che mi aiuterà, troppo.  
(Sorry that my handwriting is so bad. If it is possible to write in Italian, that would help me too.)_

He sealed the letter and addressed it, and walked to the post box to post it.

…

_Dear Arthur,_

_Your Italian was quite well! I am pleased to see it. Thank you for writing back so promptly. I had just completed an examination in English this afternoon and was therefore prepared to read your letter although your handwriting is __sloppy__. I did figure it out eventually._

_Lovino is a Roman name. My grandfather picked it out. He had this privilege because I am the oldest grandson. I do not like it much and prefer my friends to call me Romano, which means "a man of Rome." You may continue to address me as Lovino, however. It is more formal that way and since I must present these letters to the teacher it is more suitable._

_I too appreciate art. I sketch and paint a little but am always improving. Here is a sketch of me in front of my house. I am not good with faces yet so I drew the back view._

Arthur snorted. "You may continue to address me as Lovino." What a little snot. Then he smoothed out the small sketch. Improving? Bloody hell. This was a really nice sketch! It showed a boy – well, at seventeen he supposed this Lovino must be a young man, really – facing a nice villa. Even though the sketch was in black ink, he could tell the sun was up and it was autumn. This was very good. Perhaps he'd try sketching something. He now felt a bit embarrassed that someone younger than he could do much better work.

_What sort of work do you do as a docent? (I had to research that word!) _

_Please write soon,_

_Lovino_

A second sheet of paper held a postscript.

_You could send two letters? One in English for the teacher to see, and Italian to practice? I don't mind. And then I would write to you two letters, so you could translate the Italian. Please let me know._

That was a very good idea, although Arthur knew it would mean more work. He reached for his pen and dashed off the English letter first. It was getting a little easier to write in longhand again.

_Dear Lovino,_

_It is fun to come home from a dreary day and find a letter waiting. It makes a nice change from the daily routine. Thanks for responding so fast. Your sketch is very evocative. I am not ready to share my feeble sketches with you, but I am going to practice some more so that I can send you something I'm not ashamed of._

_As a junior docent my duties are rather lame. Most of the time I am stuck working the coat check, or cleaning up trash that visitors have left lying around, or collecting items for the Lost & Found. When I am very lucky, I get to do a guided tour of a small part of the museum, but since I am the youngest one there, I rarely get that chance. But at least doing the shit work means I can still look at the artworks._

He debated crossing out "shit work" and putting in something more elegant, but decided that if Lovino truly wanted to learn English he'd need to learn the vernacular as well, so he left it. He hoped the teacher wouldn't be upset with it! But perhaps the teacher didn't actually read the letters, just verified that Lovino had done the work and received a response.

_Soon I have winter exams, which means a great deal of revision. I'm not looking forward to it! I hope that you can continue to write. I already feel that my mind is expanding beyond the borders of Britain, by corresponding with you._

_Regards,_

_Arthur_

He folded that letter and then took a fresh piece of paper for his attempt at an Italian letter. First he would write it all out in English, and then translate it. He didn't bother with a greeting, since this wasn't going to go to Lovino's teacher.

_Today I actually had a bit of a bad day. I got my exam results for chemistry and they were not as good as I'd hoped. I don't even know why I chose to study it. Do you know what you want to do with your life? I don't. Sometimes I think I should be a teacher, because I love doing the tours at the museum, but most of the time the visitors are a bunch of narrow-minded gits who are only there because their schools have brought them. It can be disheartening._

_This is all the Italian I feel up to writing tonight, but I don't want to delay your letter, so I will end it here. Stay well. Arthur._

When he translated it he dithered quite a bit about the word "gits." He didn't know of an Italian word that would convey this as well. He just left it, and underlined it so Lovino would know it was an English word and not some badly-chosen (or badly-spelled) Italian one. In a hurry, he posted the letter and returned to his homework.

…

_Dear Arthur,_

_I was surprised to see you wrote two different letters. I thought you would just put the English letter into Italian. It was good to see! I could not find anything to correct in your Italian letter. I hope that my English is as good. In this style I will send you two different letters also._

_I also have winter exams approaching, but they will not be hard. I chose easy subjects. Our family is preparing for the Christmas season. We always get together in a big group and go to a resort somewhere. Sometimes I hate being around all those _(something was heavily crossed out here) _people, but it is how we do things. This year I am hoping to get a new motorcycle for my gift. What about you? What is the custom of your family?_

_Tomorrow is the exam for English. Send me good luck!_

_L._

Hah. He hoped to get a new motorcycle? Arthur merely hoped for a top-up to his Oyster card! He pulled out the Italian letter and translated it as he read Lovino's words.

_You have made me somewhat ashamed. When I'm dragged to a school function I behave just like those "gits" you talked about. (Strange word!) It doesn't help that everyone at my school is a total bastard. I just stand by myself in the corner and tune out the tour guides. But from now on I'll pay attention because they might be just as frustrated as you._

_I don't know what to do with my fucking life, either. In school I've not specialized in anything, and I don't know what I want to specialize in! Sometimes I think they make kids decide too early. I'm thinking of getting a job somewhere when I'm done with school, just to buy some time and figure out what the hell I want to do. But then my grandfather says this may lead to me slacking off for the whole rest of my life, and never choosing to better myself. As if I give a fuck._

_I know this letter is a lot cruder than my English ones, but this is how I talk and write in Italian. I thought you might want to see the 'real me.' If it sounds too coarse for you, well, okay, I could try to tone it down, but I really don't want to. It's a real relief to write to someone who doesn't even know me. I can vent better this way._

Arthur certainly understood that. And yes, it was cruder than Lovino's English letters, but he was pleased that the Italian felt able to express himself this way. The blond immediately reached for his pen and wrote his Italian letter first.

_Write how you want to write. I'm no prissy Head Boy, so I don't care. In fact I know exactly what you mean, because I have quite a temper but am forced to hold it in all the time so I don't anger my teachers or the wankers at work. I don't want to lose the job (even though it's only volunteer work) so I keep a lid on it. Sometimes during a break I have to go hide in the men's room for a while to calm down, though, or go outside for a walk to clear my head._

He wondered whether that was sharing too much of himself. But Lovino was right. It was liberating to write to someone who didn't know him well.

_I tried to draw a sketch of myself for you. It looks too cartoony but at least it shows my blond hair and my ugly dark eyebrows. Everyone says they look like big caterpillars._

He scowled and shoved the Italian letter and the tiny sketch into the envelope before answering the English letter.

_Dear Lovino,_

_Once again your letter has come at an opportune time! I just took my Italian exam and think that I did a little better than usual._

_At Christmastime things are not that much different from the rest of the year. I live with my mother and father. We decorate the house and sometimes go out to public holiday functions like a panto or Christmas movies, but we don't go anywhere special to celebrate. My brothers have all moved away and they don't seem interested in coming back very often._

He decided not to mention his gift hopes. Didn't want to come across as a poor bloke.

_The museum is getting a new exhibit of Renaissance artworks. I am certain I will think of Italy when I finally get to see them, although they won't be installed until the spring._

_Take care,_

_Arthur_

…

_Dear Arthur,_

_This is now our fourth letter exchange; I only needed to turn in six letters (three exchanged). If you don't want to write anymore I completely understand. Just let me know._

Well, what the bloody hell did that mean? He was tired of writing? It wasn't even signed!

Arthur was so upset about this that he left it for a whole day without responding, and had a miserable next day as a result. But it wasn't because of Lovino's letter, or lack of it. It was just that everything seemed to be going so bloody wrong! He lost his backpack, and then when he found it, he was late for work, so he ended up cleaning up the galleries instead of something more fun. He missed the last train home and had to take a bus and then walk in the rain, and he had on dress shoes for work and not something comfortable to walk in, and no blasted umbrella. Oh, he was right irritated when he got home, and punched the wall, hurting his hand, as he threw the soggy backpack on the couch with a scowl.

"Letter for you," his mother said in a cheerful tone.

Letter? Maybe it was some school thing. He went to the kitchen to fetch it, shaking the water out of his hair like a dog.

Another letter from Lovino! He realized his heart was only thumping because he was afraid of what the Italian would say in the letter. "Stop writing," maybe? He wouldn't be surprised. Arthur took the letter and ran upstairs to his room so he wouldn't act like an idiot in front of his parents when he read the hurtful words that had to be inside.

After he'd changed out of his wet gear, eying it nervously the entire time, he lay on the bed to read it. It was in Italian.

_Arthur,_

_I'm sorry I forgot to put an Italian letter into the envelope yesterday. I would like to keep writing but not to turn the letters in to my teacher. Is that all right with you?_

The Brit read that part five or six times before allowing himself to relax, believe it, and read further.

_I really hope you're not angry. I was so pissed off because my idiot little brother was interrupting me and pestering me to do shit with him and I was trying to think in English and write. And then part of my mind was trying to think of what to say in the Italian letter. So I really am sorry and I hope you'll keep writing._

_I hope you have a happy Christmas._

_Your friend,_

_Lovino_

Arthur lay on the bed, drawing deep breaths, rereading the letter, before he began to compose a response.

_No, I am not angry. I was disappointed –_he almost crossed this out but decided to let it stand_ – but since you wrote afterwards then there is nothing to be disappointed about._

_Tomorrow is Christmas day. It's supposed to snow. I hope that it does; we don't get enough snow here. Do you get snow in Italy? I'm guessing not. It's very pretty. Someday I would like to live in a place that gets a lot of snow in the winter, just to see what it's like._

_Yes, I would like to keep writing. I admit I'm a little nervous about sharing my thoughts with a stranger, but when I think about sharing them with the people I know here, it's even more bloody terrifying. I don't mind whether you want to write in English or Italian. Either way I suppose one of us will get something good out of it, yeah?_

_I know you'll get this letter after Christmas, so I hope it was a good one and that you get your motorcycle. I will picture you zooming around Rome and terrorizing the pedestrians!_

_My hand always hurts when I write a lot with a pen, which is why my letters are never very long, and it's hurting now because of some shite that happened today. I'll sign off now but look forward to your next letter. Do you want me to start calling you Romano, since you're not going to turn my letters in for credit?_

Yes, that sounded stupid, but if Lovino really hated his name, he might feel more comfortable this way.

…

_Hey, biondo bastardo,_

_I know it's been a while since I wrote. Hope you're all right. I had some problems after the holidays when I got my exam grades and they weren't so good. Nonno (my grandfather) lectured my ear off and set me to doing extra homework and chores. Unfortunately I got a really good grade in English, so I couldn't write to you and pretend I was doing English homework. Sorry._

_Well, I didn't get my motorcycle. Bastards. But I did get tickets to the opera, which was an interesting experience. Have you ever gone? I saw 'Carmen,' which takes place in a Spanish setting. I spent a lot of my youth in Spain so I know a lot about the culture. Have you always lived in Britain? What's the best place you ever visited?_

_Is your hand better? I know what you mean about writing with a pen. All my homework (except the fucking English letters) has to be done on the computer. Would you rather email? I hope that's not too stalkerish, but I've been thinking about it and can't really see that it is. It's not like we don't know each other's home addresses already, dammit._

_If you want to, my home email is ... I have a school email address but don't want to get it there. I don't know if the bastards can read personal emails but I don't want to risk it. But yes: please call me Romano! Thanks a lot!_

_R._

Arthur smiled at this and went straight to the computer.

_Hi, yourself, ROMANO. _He snickered at that before continuing. _I'm all right, I guess. Work is the same, home life ditto. I got to give a little tour in the first week of the new year. It was a group of American students and they were all just giggling and flirting and acting like a bunch of idiots. The manager always gives me the worst tours! But if I can tune them out it's all right. I just say the important things about the beautiful works and hope that some of it falls into willing ears. Hell, if I had to listen, maybe I'd be goofing off too, just because maybe it's not cool to pay attention to the tour guide. But I like to hope that I'd listen a little bit._

_I hope this email doesn't overpower you. I can type much faster than I can write. Oh. I'll do some in Italian, too, at the end._

_Best place I've been…hm. I'd have to say Austria. I went to Vienna and Salzburg once on a school trip (when I was your age) and they were beautiful, really striking places. I'd like to get back there someday. Very historical and elegant. How about you? I guess Spain, yeah? Never really wanted to visit there, myself._

_This week I had the first early exams of the new semester. My new teachers are gits, as usual. I refuse to try to be a bloody teacher's pet, but then they just ignore me. Luckily I'm doing better in chemistry and the professor can't ding me for much. But I only have to get through this semester and then I've got the summer off. I might get a real paying job for the summer and take time off from the museum, so I have some pocket change for school next year._

_Your idea about working for a little while after graduating is really smart. I wish I would have thought of that before entering university. I've always felt like I'm wasting time and money being here and not having a real goal. I went to a careers lecture once where the chap said "Do what you love." But what the hell! There's no money in working at the museum. Even a paying job there is just barely enough to live on, in London._

_Hah. I should find a museum, in a snowy place, that pays more, and give tours in English to the foreigners that go there._

_Anyway, I do have stuff to do now but I think you were brilliant to suggest emails. Have a good night (or whenever you read this) and write back soon._

He reread this and then put in a little Italian postscript, apologizing for not writing much in Italian.

…

_Wow, Arthur. You're a really blabby bastard on email. But that's okay. It's a lot more like talking to someone than those stupid formal letters we had to write. I hope I can come up with something interesting to tell you, too._

_Teacher's pet. Right. Do you have __any idea__ how hard it would be for me to try to be a goddamn teacher's pet? No fucking way. Besides, all the teachers here hate me, because my little brother really IS a teacher's pet, and they look at me scowling in the corner and don't even bother. Half the time I think I get passing grades just because they want to get me out of their classrooms and shunt me off to someone else. Don't do it, bastard. Don't prostitute yourself just to be a teacher's pet. You'd hate yourself._

_Why don't you quit university and work for a while, and think about life? At least then you wouldn't be wasting money and then you also wouldn't have to worry about studying and all that. _

_Anyway, have to run; Nonno is making me do that extra studying until the end of the year, dammit. Write soon._

…

Arthur thought about what it would be like to quit university and get a job somewhere. Eventually he concluded that this would be a waste of time, and tried to explain this to his friend.

_No, you don't understand the university system at all. If I quit now I'd lose all the work I've put into it so far, and all the money. It would be harder to quit and start again later, than to keep plowing through it now and finish._

_Though I do have to admit it's going to be bloody annoying to finish four years and not be qualified for anything. Sometimes I think it'd be fun – yes, fun – doing some kind of manual labor, working in construction, or landscaping or something. But what if I did something wrong, and a house collapsed or something? That's a terrifying thought and I'm not really strong enough for that kind of work anyway. But I bet I would get strong fairly quickly._

_Maybe I should invent something to make a million pounds and retire young. Hah._

…

_Bastard, I have the feeling that if you could invent something and make a million pounds, you'd be actually doing it, instead of sitting around bitching to me through emails. _

_But to be fair, I spent the entire afternoon on Saturday trying to come up with something to invent, and I couldn't. So, maybe there are just no ideas out there._

_Nonno has promised me the motorcycle if I get all A's during this last quarter of the year. I'm easily on track in most things, especially English (thanks). It's not so bad. I can manipulate him once in a while._

…

Arthur didn't understand that. _ Why do you have to manipulate him? I can't tell if you're bloody rich, so he can just fling a motorcycle at you as a prize, or just 'well-off,' so that a motorcycle is within reach but not easy to get. Why would you want one, anyway? They're loud and they seem really awkward to maneuver._

_I just realized I never answered your question about the opera. No, I haven't ever been to one. But because I thought of this today, I bought myself a ticket to 'The Magic Flute' next weekend. Maybe this is a rubbish opera, I don't know, and don't disparage me if you think it is. It was the only one in town that I could still get a ticket to. Just don't say anything yet, let me go, and then we can talk about it when I've seen it? I feel like an idiot going to the opera by myself but I'm not about to invite any of the wankers I know. I'd rather just go by myself so I can talk to you about it afterwards._

_They've been letting me do more tours at work. The new Renaissance exhibit is up and I did walk through it and think about you, since these are from your homeland. It's no wonder you're such a good artist. But now that we're not exchanging paper letters we haven't been able to exchange sketches. I have this new tablet (courtesy of the literature department at school) which has a touch screen, but I've tried drawing on it and I'm total rubbish._

_Anyway, I'll write after I see the opera. Have a good week._

…

Days later, a new email from Lovino finally arrived. _ The Magic Flute isn't a 'rubbish opera,' bastard. (I can't help feeling that my English is going to start sounding more British than yours, if we keep emailing!) It's not one of the great classical operas, but it's all right. Did you like it? I made myself not write until after I knew you'd been to see it. Proud of me? Should be._

_You seriously can't guess why I want a motorcycle? I can ride it __alone__. No fucking 'Take your brother to school' or any shit like that. (I mean, yes, they could tell me that, but they wouldn't want to risk him.) I can just ride, alone, and think, and go where I want, and not worry about stupid mass transit or whatever. That's all. I'm tired of either being chauffeured around (metaphorically) by Nonno, or by having to be the chauffeur for stupid Feli (my brother – don't remember if I ever told you his name). I sort of feel like it's a step to independence. I'd have to take care of it myself, and pay the registration and whatever, so it would be some added responsibility._

_When I first asked for it, that wasn't why I asked. I just tried to think of some expensive shit that I could ask for, for Christmas. But when it looked like the bastard might actually buy the fucking thing for me, I started to imagine what it would really be like. And I think I'd like it a lot. Do you have a car?_

…

Arthur sighed. _No, I don't have a car. I take 'stupid mass transit' everywhere, unless I walk to save money. You've no doubt heard of the rainy London weather? I have an extensive collection of umbrellas._

He laughed at that before typing further. He did have several. He often forgot them and ended up buying new ones on the next rainy day. Idly he counted them on his fingers before continuing the letter. Seven? Eight? Bloody hell, he couldn't even remember. He laughed again and went back to his email. _Add to my future list: a place where it doesn't rain so much._

He stopped again and tried to think of a place that met all the criteria, but couldn't think of anything. _Not much else to say. Spring midterms coming up. You?_

…

_Bastard, I have tests _all the time._ Yes, I have new midterms coming up. But all this extra studying has paid off; I bet I get straight A's this term. What about you? Doing any better?_

_Hey! Soon I'll be – ah, forget it. I'll write more later._

_R._

Arthur was curious about what had cut his friend's email off so abruptly. He paced around for a little while and then wrote back immediately, just in case there was a problem. _Are you all right? Is there a problem? Write back when you get this. _

Within minutes a reply came back. _I hope you're not parked at the computer just waiting for me to email. But if you are, that's cool. I'd rather talk to you than anybody around here. Yes, everything's fine. Got sidetracked by some school shit, that's all. Tonight my cousins are coming over for dinner. Fuck. I'll have to sit there at the table and act sociable for at least an hour, dammit. Maybe I'll take my phone and screw around with it so I don't have to pay attention. Send me something to cheer me up afterwards?_

Arthur thought about this. He wondered whether Romano could get emails on his phone, and wrote right back to ask.

_Yeah, I can! But I wouldn't be able to answer you, you know. Just read them under the table or something._

Arthur grinned. _I'll try to keep you amused,_ _as long as you write me a long email afterwards and tell me how it went._

He got an email back in five minutes. _Bastard, you've got yourself a deal._

…

Two hours later Arthur was camped in front of the computer with a pot of tea, some ginger nuts, and his Italian dictionary. He started off with a little poem in English:

_If dinner you eat  
With cousins so sweet  
Remember to pass  
On the gravy and meat._

Well, yes, it was dumb, but it was something. He sent it, laughing a little, and thought about the next thing.

_Once there was a little boy named Romano, who got in trouble for reading his emails at the table. His Nonno punished him by taking away his motorcycle. In the middle of the night the little boy escaped from his bedroom and took the motorcycle out for a midnight run. He traveled to every nation in the world in his pajamas, and got home before dawn. His Nonno was very confused to find a smiling Romano and an empty gas tank in the morning._

Hmm. What else could he write?

_Like an angry little flower  
Romano sits at the table, hour after hour._

Well, that was bloody stupid, but it was too late to call it back. Arthur drank some cooling tea. This would be more fun if he could actually think of something clever. He'd never realized before just how difficult it was to be funny on command. He hoped Romano wouldn't get in trouble for all this. His grandfather sounded pretty tough. So he took a break for a little while and tried to think of something very clever, that was still short enough to go in a text message.

Argh. He felt so stupid. Well, he'd do one more and then wait for Romano to get back to him, and he'd apologize.

_I gave a tour today. Ten children and two mothers. The children were better behaved than the mothers! Sometimes I really hate this job. I hate school. I just want to run away._

Hah, well, that was true, but pointless. He went to read in bed for a while.

Later he heard the ping of an incoming email and walked over to sit down at the desk. _Bastard, why did you stop? You were keeping me cheerful but then you stopped and I had to pay attention and I got all pissed off and yelled at Nonno. I didn't even get to have dessert! Are you all right?_

Bloody hell, now he'd be mad. _Yes, I'm fine, wanker. I was afraid to write too much and get you in trouble for goofing off at the table, and I could only think of stupid shite to write to you. I'm sorry._

Romano responded quickly. _Ah, it's not so bad. I can live without the fucking dessert. Thanks for the little bit you did. I liked the story about me riding my motorcycle all over the world. Sometimes I want to run away too._

Arthur, reading this, tried to imagine the two of them running away, riding Romano's motorcycle all over the world, not doing anything except having fun and relaxing. This absurd fantasy came crashing to a halt when the reality of money came into his mind. Plus he wasn't sure they could actually spend time together comfortably. He'd probably freeze up and then his temper would explode at something Romano said, and then his friend would get pissed off, and it would just be bad. He'd often dallied with the idea of trying to arrange a meeting, but this thought always stopped him. He'd rather go on never meeting him, than to meet him and wreck their friendship with his bloody temper.

Oh. Romano was probably waiting for an answer. _Nice pipe dream, anyway. I should go_. _I have homework to do._

Though he didn't. He was just getting uncomfortable about the discussion. But – _Right. Me too. Good night, bastard._

…

They exchanged a few weak emails over the following week. Arthur didn't realize, at first, how distant Romano was being, because he was focusing on his own need to draw back.

Plus he was quite busy with end-of-year exams, and also work. One of the other docents had gotten the flu, so Arthur got to take more tours. He felt that he was able to polish his public speaking style, and therefore improve, although he still scowled quite a bit at those gits who didn't pay attention to the tour.

Monday morning he awoke rather crabby; he hadn't gotten any email from Romano in three days. Well, it was the end of the school year everywhere, and his friend was probably madly cramming too. He went to school, took his chemistry exam (and felt very good about it), and headed off to the museum. He'd email tonight, after dinner.

Arthur's run of good luck hadn't ended! Er – well – the same docent still had the flu, so he would get to give a tour. He felt bad about triumphing at his coworker's illness, but he took the opportunity anyway.

Today's tour was a group of Italian students. Arthur smiled to himself. This would definitely be one to tell Romano about. His friend was always crowing about how well-behaved Italian people were, compared to the rest of the world. Well, he would just see about that. From a corner of the room, before he started the tour, he let his eyes scan the group. They were polite and quiet, eying the artworks in the lobby, waiting for their tour guide. Seemed like maybe Romano was right about that?

Ah. In the back of the group was a dark young man who was fiercely scowling at the floor. This boy looked just the way Arthur imagined Romano must look: slim, terribly handsome, and irritable. Hah. He made a decision. Since he already planned to email his friend about this particular tour, he'd treat that irritable student as if he were Romano himself. Arthur would give the best tour he ever had given, pouring his knowledge into the dark boy's ear, as it were, and pretend he was impressing his friend.

He stepped forward and introduced himself to the teacher, who called the students' wandering attention to them both. Arthur greeted them all pleasantly, introducing himself to the whole group, and began the tour.

At first he was very, very nervous. These students didn't chatter, just shuffled slowly along, eyes wide as they entered each gallery. It was a bit unnerving. He glanced at the dark boy from time to time. Once, their eyes met, and the Italian turned his entire body away, but not before Arthur saw a blush rising. What was wrong with the git?

But as the tour progressed, he forgot all this nervousness and slipped into his zone, speaking of the artworks, answering the occasional question. Even when he caught the brunet student's eye again, he didn't feel discomfited. He smiled shyly and continued speaking, getting the ghost of a smile in return, before shifting his gaze to allow the nervous boy some privacy.

As they approached the end of the tour, Arthur's supervisor came out and tapped him on the shoulder. "That's fine, Arthur. I'll take it from here."

"Wh-what? I can finish! There's only one more gallery to go!" Why wouldn't she let him finish?

"I shouldn't have let you take this tour." Her accented voice was crisp and carried through the gallery. "You're not experienced enough to give tours to foreign guests. Go now."

Faced with a choice of losing his temper or leaving the room, he stalked away, fuming, hands clenched into fists. What a bloody bitch that Belarusian trout was. He'd been doing perfectly well! What was she talking about? Arthur walked around the corner to one of the long windows and rested his head against it, staring unseeing out at the museum grounds and grinding his teeth.

"Excuse me," he heard behind him, an Italian voice. He turned to see the blushing dark student standing there. "I – I wanted to thank you for the tour. I think – _I _think – y-you did a very good job."

"Thank you," Arthur replied in surprise, but the boy was already hurrying back to his classmates.

That was nice, though. That was the first time anyone had ever thanked him for a tour. He felt a little better now. Arthur decided to head to the cafeteria for some tea. He needed to calm down, and needed to stay away from his ruddy supervisor.

In the cafeteria he got tea and a scone and sat near the windows, daydreaming. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out. _Hey, bastard, long time no chat._

Arthur cheered up immediately, and typed a quick reply as he grinned down at his phone. _Nice to hear from you. Having a bad afternoon._

Romano's response was quick. He must be waiting at the computer. _How was the chemistry test? Bad?_

Arthur snorted. _Ah, no, I forgot all about that. No, that was fine. Work is bad. I gave a tour – a bloody good one – and my supervisor stopped me in the middle and embarrassed me in front of all the visitors._

While he waited for Romano's answer (which he hoped would be encouraging) he scanned the cafeteria and saw the Italian students trickling in. The teacher spotted him and walked over. "Thank you," she offered. "Your portion of the tour was quite good. It is easy to see that you enjoy your work."

Arthur smiled brightly at her. "It was a pleasure. Your students are attentive and well-behaved. Thank you."

She nodded and returned to her group. Arthur couldn't help himself – he searched for the dark student and spotted him at the cash register. The now-laughing boy and his companions passed from view and Arthur turned back to his tea, scone and phone.

In another minute his phone buzzed. _Sorry. Had to get something to eat. But the tour was good. ? You should be proud of yourself, then._

The blond laughed a little. Romano didn't really understand him very well. He tried to explain. _Pride in myself is never the issue. Sometimes I think my self-esteem is just too high. Nobody else thinks as highly of me as I do! Ha ha._

He was surprised at Romano's return message. _I do, you idiot. You're smart and funny and I think very highly of you. I'm really glad we became friends. I just wish you'd think highly of me._

That was surprising. "I do!" he said to the phone. _I do think very highly of you. I trust you and consider you a true friend. The only person I know who can keep up with me. Ha ha_. He hoped that wasn't too bloody autocratic.

The next response surprised him too. _Why haven't you ever asked to meet?_ _If that's really true and you do consider me a friend._

Arthur shook his head before typing. _It's different in person._ _Afraid you'd find me too much of an insufferable git. Or you might find me ugly._

No, he couldn't send that. It was insulting and it exposed too much of him. But as he nervously tried to hit the backspace key, his thumb hit the Send button by mistake. Oh, _bugger._ Arthur put his head down on the table and bit his lip, and prayed that Romano would overlook that stupid comment and just get on with the conversation.

When the phone buzzed he almost was afraid to read the message. _Stupid. How could I think that way about you? You're my friend! Just tell me this. Did you ever THINK about asking to meet?_

He finished his scone, staring out the window and thinking about this. _Of course I do, wanker! All the time. But I couldn't work up my nerve._

When he'd sent this and daydreamed a bit more, he looked up to see the dark boy, mug in one hand, phone in the other, standing near Arthur's chair with a blush on his face. "Excuse me. May I join you?"

"Er? Ah, f-f-feel free," he stammered. Bloody hell, now what? M-maybe this student wanted to – to flirt with him? Arthur didn't know what to do. He couldn't sit here with this beautiful student and send Romano texts; that would be incredibly rude.

The student sat and fiddled with his phone before putting it in his pocket and smiling weakly at Arthur, sipping from his coffee mug.

Arthur's phone buzzed. He slipped it onto his lap and surreptitiously read Romano's new message. _Nice to meet you._

"Eh?" What the bloody hell did that mean?

"Bastard, you still don't get it?" the red-faced student said with a soft smile and pleading eyes.

Arthur's eyes felt like they would bug out of his head. "R-R-Romano?" Not possible. But - but of course it was possible. He felt the blood drain from his face and quickly covered it with his hands. Bollocks, what a frightening way to meet someone; he felt trapped! He almost wanted to scream, or faint.

Romano put a hand out to touch his arm lightly. "Arthur. Are you all right? Please don't hide from me?" His hand withdrew again.

Arthur shook his head. Blast, he felt like such an idiot!

But Romano's low, calm voice broke through his panic. "I – I'm sorry I sprung this on you this way. Sprang it? Whatever. I was afraid to tell you I'd be in London."

At that, Arthur did take his hands away, very slowly. Why would this laughing, handsome young man be afraid to meet anyone? He felt sick to his stomach, but his eyes met the sparkling amber ones of his companion and he began to calm down. He let his eyes take in every detail of his friend's face. Arthur could feel his heartbeat returning to normal. "You absolute _w-wanker._ You were going to come all this way and not even tell me?"

"No, dammit. We're here for a week. I would have worked up my nerve by Wednesday, I think." Romano snorted with a wry grin.

This idea was beginning to settle into Arthur's brain. "You _git_." The blond picked up his cold tea and sipped it to recover his equanimity, trying to smile. "It – it _is_ nice to meet you," he stumbled. "And – and thanks for what you said to me, about the tour." He pressed his lips together again. He was not going to lose it, here in the blasted cafeteria!

"You're welcome, bastard. Now listen. I've got the rest of the day free, so finish your fucking tea and take me on a better tour."

"What? Pfft. Screw the bloody tea." Arthur shoved his chair back, and the two friends ran out of the cafeteria, laughing together.


	8. Romano's Awakening

_This was another one-shot that I've taken down in order to combine into this file. When it was originally published, only one reviewer (a non-native speaker of English) commented on the symbolism. Maybe it's too subtle._

…

**Romano's Awakening.**

Romano awoke in a sweat, heart pounding, in a sticky bed. Again. Dammit, he felt like some stupid preteen entering puberty! Cursing under his breath, he got out of bed, cleaned himself up, changed the sheets and flopped back down, to think about this damn dream again.

He'd had this dream a lot over the last few weeks. He didn't know why. Romano didn't always ejaculate in his sleep, not every time (here he punched the mattress and scowled). Sometimes he awoke with a raging erection and had no choice but to deal with it. But that was still preferable to these nocturnal messes.

He forced himself to recap the dream as he lay back and tried to get himself under control. In it, he was always walking to visit his grandfather. He headed through the woods, reaching the little home where Rome had retired, and instead of being greeted by the older man, someone else was there. Someone who lured Romano inside and seduced him. The details of the dream were never really clear. Sometimes he felt as if the powerful unknown person were devouring him, draining him; sometimes it was simply the way the mysterious eyes watched him, with their promise of satisfaction, or the way the strong hands manipulated him. The aggressive feel of teeth in his shoulder, of hands pinning him down, the weight of a body on his. Like a ravenous wolf, taking him, over and over.

Dammit, he was getting aroused again. Romano dealt with things efficiently and then rolled over, angrily pushing his face into the pillow. What the hell could he do about this?

After so much time alone he had to admit the idea of sex with someone else was a very good idea indeed. But – but not Spain. He needed to move on.

He rolled onto his back again. Dammit, the whole problem was that he didn't know anybody else well enough. Since the end of World War II, he'd been almost a hermit! Oh, he saw Veneziano all the time, and his potato bastard boyfriend. And Spain came by every now and then, sometimes with the pervert or the damn albino potato. But really, that was the limit of Romano's socialization. How could he find the mystery person from his dream?

The brunet snorted. That was easy. Start going to these damn meetings. All the nations of the world went to them, eventually. At least he could look at them all, and observe them, and see if any of them were – were animalistic enough to be the person from his dream.

Before he could get carried away again, he shut down that line of thinking, making a mental note to ask his brother when and where the next meeting was. Yes. Romano had been reclusive for far too long. He needed to get back out in the world, for his own mental health, if nothing else.

…

He walked nervously into the large meeting room. It was extremely noisy. Lots of nations were bickering with each other, and there was a crowd at the buffet table on the side of the room. This meeting was in Romania's capital, which had almost frightened him into staying home: he didn't know the language, and knew very little of the culture. Romano had spent last night clinging to his little brother (mentally, of course; he wasn't about to act like a baby in front of the fucking macho potato), but had decided to man up for the meeting. At least the meetings were conducted in English, which he understood.

Romano was also quite, quite nervous about how other nations would react to his presence. They might start pestering him to find out why he had started attending, and he wasn't about to blurt out that he was trying to find a sex partner he'd dreamed about! Many of these nations he didn't know well at all – though he'd spent some time with an online world map this past week, locating them – and he was very tense.

He knew Spain wasn't attending this meeting. That was another reason he'd decided to come here now. Seeking, and hopefully finding, his one nation, in this melee, would definitely be easier without the dumb tomato bastard pestering him the entire time. Romano sat next to his brother without getting any breakfast, and pulled out a pen and note pad. Mostly everyone ignored him, which surprised him. Maybe they'd start bothering him at lunchtime?

During the morning portion of the meeting Romano found it easy to be attentive to the agenda, although many of the visiting nations did not. In the back, a scuffle broke out between Switzerland and Prussia; he recognized Switzerland not by his appearance but by the gun he used to whack the albino in the head. Pfft. Nobody would be stupid enough to shoot off a gun during a meeting. Would they? He tried to ignore it and faced Romania, taking notes, and occasionally glancing around the room.

No nation seemed particularly sexual or aggressive. But of course, this was a meeting, not a social event.

At the afternoon break he found himself next to England at the buffet. This made him a little nervous. His last contact with that nation had been during the war. He was a little worried about how his old enemy would treat him.

"I'm surprised to see you here," the blond said pleasantly.

He spoke in such a normal tone that Romano almost automatically answered. "I – I've decided it's time for me to venture out into the world more. Take more of an interest, on behalf of my country."

"That's good." England smiled at him as he poured some tea. "This meeting isn't the worst one we've had, but I hope it won't scare you away."

"So far so good." Romano managed a little smile as well, reaching for a no-doubt-stale bun. "I – I was a little worried about how people would treat me. Because of the war, and – and all that." Dammit. But it was true.

"Don't worry about that any longer. Everyone's mostly over it, you'll find. We're all working to make the world a more – a more _harmonious_ place, I suppose, for everyone to share. Old grievances are long forgotten."

"That's good. If it's really true, it makes me a little less nervous."

England laughed out loud. "Of course it's true! Aren't we standing here, old enemies politely chatting? There's really nothing for you to be nervous about."

Romano grinned; he couldn't help it. This was so much less fearful than he'd expected. "O-okay."

The island nation cleared his throat. "Do you know your way around Bucharest? Would you like to join me for dinner?"

_Aha_, Romano thought. _Maybe England is the one._ "S-sure, bastard." Then he remembered to say thank you.

"I'll meet you in the lobby after the meeting, then? I've been here fairly frequently, so I know some good restaurants."

"Th-that's fine," he stammered, as Romania called the meeting back to order.

…

The two nations stepped outside. The weather was cool, near twilight. "Most of the good restaurants are in the downtown district. We can walk; it's not far."

Romano nodded. He was still surprised at how pleasant England was being, but it certainly beat hanging around with Veneziano and Germany.

"Or," the island nation said, "I know a shortcut through these woods." He gestured. "There's a pedestrian path. It's nicer in springtime, of course, but not bad now."

_Walking through the woods_…the parallel to his dream was beginning to excite Romano. Not sexually, just mentally. It seemed like the dream person might really be England! But he didn't want to walk through a dark wood with him. With anyone. It was a little scary. "L-let's stay on the sidewalk."

The blond let out a little bark of laughter. "That's fine. But you really don't have to worry. I'm a gentleman, not some wolf about to attack you." He moved off and Romano hurried to catch up.

Oh, Romano was in a much better mood already. How easy this had been. As they walked, he eyed his companion surreptitiously. He was certainly good-looking, despite those eyebrows. Dressed well: not flashy, but conservative. And he'd been pleasant and calm all day, at least with Romano. England had argued some points during the meeting, but from what Romano had seen, there were bound to be differences of opinion. Nobody could keep their temper all the time. Veneziano had agreed in a whisper, when he'd mentioned this to him.

They found a small restaurant; he allowed England to choose the dishes, since he was unfamiliar with Romanian cuisine. As they ate and chatted about world affairs, he spent more time analyzing the blond. This was going to be the start of an amazing relationship, he knew. Cultured, intelligent – yes, the island nation seemed to be well worth it.

But as they talked, England continued to maintain his aloof, gentlemanly demeanor. Romano almost began to feel like he was sitting with a kind older brother, someone who carefully explained things to him for his own benefit. This really wasn't the kind of person from the dream. That person had been dominant and complex. England seemed conversant, of course, and friendly, but not the person from the dream.

Still, it was nice to sit and talk without having to worry about coming across as an idiot. He began to be interested in their discussion, despite himself, and asked several coherent questions. This was actually good for him. By the time tomorrow's meeting rolled around, he wouldn't feel so out of it.

"Would you like to explore the city a little?" England paid the bill and the two of them left the restaurant.

"I – I think I'd rather go back to the hotel now." Romano, of course, wanted to see whether his companion would come to his room. He wasn't sure he could work up his courage to invite the blond, but if he was the nation from the dream, England would practically demand it.

"Of course. It's this way."

Silently they passed through the busy city streets. Romano spared time to observe them: architecture, lights, cars, people. It was nice, getting to see the new places. Yes, his decision to come out of hiding had been a good one, no matter what its motivation.

In the hotel lobby England turned to him and shook his hand. "Thank you for dining with me. It was quite civilized." He snorted. "Not like having dinner with France, or America."

Romano smiled. "Thank you, bastard. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night."

And England headed up the stairs, presumably to his own room.

Romano rode the elevator, thinking. That had been very peaceful. And he hadn't been nervous at all. He wondered why England hadn't pursued him, though. Well, if he really was that much of a gentleman, then he couldn't be the nation from the dream.

He reached his hotel room and went inside. Thankfully he'd been able to get a room to himself this time, though Veneziano had warned him that might not happen very often.

The half-nation dreamed the dream that night. He was relieved when he awoke before climaxing. As he grabbed himself to bring the arousal to completion, he forced himself to think about England in the mysterious role. It was hard work. The blond was friendly, but didn't have that hot, devouring nature.

Oh well. Romano came and then cleaned himself up. There were a lot of nations in the world. He'd figure it out.

…

During the rest of the week he and England had dinner at a different little restaurant each night. Romano had figured he might as well enjoy this time and start looking for his demanding partner at the next meeting. The dinners were enjoyable, and although the island nation did get a little wound up when certain topics were being discussed (his cooking, his weather), Romano always came back to his hotel room feeling relaxed and calm.

Definitely not England, then.

At the end of the last meeting they parted with smiles and a handshake.

…

Over the next year Romano took an active interest in seeking his mystery partner. He slept with several of the Nordics (polite and cold), the Baltics (polite and nervous, far too shy to be the aggressor of his dreams), and the Asians, avoiding France, Spain and Prussia as much as he could. He already knew he wouldn't want to be with any of them.

That didn't mean they avoided him, of course. Sometimes one, two, or all three of them pestered him so much that he wished he'd stayed in hiding.

And sometimes at meetings he caught England's eye. He always tried to offer a friendly smile. More often than not, England turned away before Romano could begin smiling; those times when he didn't turn away, the blond kept a stoic expression on his face and simply nodded in return. Romano wondered whether the island nation was having economic problems, or something. He seemed very cold lately, not just to Romano, but to everyone.

Then Romano had tried spending time with Canada, and then America. He'd thought he'd found his dream partner when he'd gone out with America. That nation was so full of energy! But…the conversation had been so banal. Well, conversation wasn't really the point of all this. Hah. But the sex had been boring, too, unimaginative and over too soon. Romano had practically had to hold up a flashing sign to get the oblivious idiot to understand what he wanted. So he wasn't the one.

On the other hand, Russia had eagerly jumped into sex, but – but Romano wasn't happy with that at all. The man was technically very good, but he didn't have that seductive technique that the dream-person had used. Didn't care much about satisfying his partner. After making love to Russia one time, Romano had no further interest in him. And they couldn't hold much of a conversation together, either. He'd avoided Russia's sisters, because Belarus was, frankly, psychotic – everyone could see that; he didn't need his brother's warning trilled into his ear – and Ukraine was obviously not going to try to dominate him in bed. Pfft.

The dream's frequency had begun to abate, but Romano had kept searching. He spent time with Bulgaria, Romania – another case where he thought he'd succeeded, but he hadn't. (Later, he supposed the fang had misled him.) He'd then gone after the sleepy Greece, well-known for the depth of his desires. But that had been a snoozefest on so many levels. Some of the other nations he'd approached hadn't been interested; he'd been too proud to try to convince them. If they weren't interested, they couldn't really be the person from the dream.

By the end of the year Romano was irritated and drained. Maybe this had been a stupid exercise. He sat at home, trying to figure out what to do next.

A meeting was coming up again, this time in Venice. His brother was technically in charge, but he knew the potato bastard would be running things. Well, the one good thing that had come out of all this was his attention to his country, and to world affairs. He'd just go to the damn meeting, not try to pick anyone up, not try to find some mystic partner. Shit. Why could people like Veneziano and Germany find happiness, and he was throwing himself at people and failing?

Maybe he just wasn't alluring enough. That was distressing to consider, but he did consider it.

Then he laughed. Of course he was alluring. Everybody in the world was just an idiot, that's all.

…

Since he was no longer on his active hunt for the dream partner, Romano scanned the meeting room idly. He caught England's eye again, and the island nation nodded before turning his head down to his laptop.

Maybe Romano should ask him out to dinner. They hadn't talked in so long, and despite his lack of sexual aggression, at least England had been one of his more pleasant dinner companions. And – and if things were going bad for him, maybe Romano could help? That wasn't likely. He still wasn't a power player. But maybe by lending a sympathetic ear it would do some good.

Accordingly, at the lunch break he went to the hotel restaurant and waited for the island nation to arrive, to invite him to dinner. But the blond never showed.

Romano went back to the meeting room a little early, and England was still in the room, bent over his laptop, a cup of cold tea and plate of stale breakfast buns at his side.

The half-nation cleared his throat. People were beginning to trickle back in and he didn't want to be overheard. "E-England?"

The blond raised his gaze. "Romano."

"Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" He was proud of himself for not stammering.

England gave him a long, cool look. "No," he replied, after a long silence. He turned back to his laptop. "Thank you," he added.

Wh-why not? Romano was confused, but he went to his seat. He wondered why England wouldn't have wanted to go to dinner. They'd gotten along so well before!

During the second half of the day, Romano's mind was in a whirl. Half of his attention was on England's current behavior – he was dazedly staring into space, not attending to the meeting at all – and the other half was trying to figure out why the island nation had been so cold to him.

Eventually he did figure that part out, of course. Romano had never taken England's feelings into consideration. In fact he'd never really taken anyone's feelings into consideration; he'd just plowed through all these nations, trying to find one that matched his dream. He and the island nation had had a fun time at that old meeting, and then Romano hadn't spoken to him for a whole year. Dammit. Yeah, now he could see exactly why England wasn't interested. Everyone had some pride. Well, fuck him.

As the afternoon wore on, more and more people became aware of England's inattention, until Germany barked out, "England?"

He didn't react.

"Hey, _Angleterre!_" But the blond didn't react to that either. It took an elbow to the ribs from Prussia – who else – to bring him back to the moment.

"Er – what?"

The room filled with titters as people began to scoff at the blond. His face reddened. He looked around the room at all the nations laughing and his scowl grew, until he apparently reached his boiling point, rising and grabbing his things. "Shut it, you idiotic bunch of wankers!" England fled the meeting room to the sound of all the others roaring at his discomfort.

Except Romano, who now felt like total shit.

The macho potato got the meeting back on track. Romano paid no attention. He wondered whether England had been moping about him, or something. If that was why he'd been so vacant all afternoon.

But no. Romano didn't mean that much to him. If he did, surely England would have asked him to dinner before this? Or lunch, or something.

He forced himself to think back. No. England wouldn't have had the chance. Right away Romano had started chasing all those other nations. And from what he'd seen today, the blond had a bit of a temper, and he was proud. England wouldn't have pestered him to socialize, in case of rejection. Dammit, Romano certainly understood how that felt.

He now saw that his actions had clearly said "Not Interested." Dammit. That wasn't what he'd intended at all! And an entire year had gone by. Fuck. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop and realized the meeting had ended.

"Hey, Romano!" America called out. "Wanna have dinner?"

Should he? "N-no," he blurted out, before he really knew what he was saying. "Uh, thanks, but no, bastard."

"Okay, well, have a good night!" The loud blond didn't seem fazed by the refusal.

In a bit of a daze himself, the half-nation packed up his things and took them back to the hotel room he was sharing with Austria. He dumped them on the desk before plopping down on the bed to figure out what to do next.

Well, he needed to get some dinner. Here in Veneziano's neck of the woods he could certainly get good pasta. He put on his coat and headed out.

Romano found himself scanning the faces of the people he passed. He wondered if they were happy in their lives. Wondered whether anyone actually thought about such things anymore. He mooched along the sidewalk, thoughts tumbling like leaves in an autumn wind.

Eventually those thoughts turned back to England. Romano wanted to apologize. Maybe they could still be friends, if he explained about things. Out of all the nations he'd spent time with, this year, England was the only one who had treated him as an equal, a mature adult. He'd liked that feeling, though he hadn't grasped how different it felt until just now. Had never really analyzed it before.

He walked for almost two hours, rambling in circles around the city, before feeling his stomach grumble. Well, there was a little café up here that he liked. Instead of getting a full-blown dinner, he'd pop in for espresso and maybe some cake.

Inside the café he saw England, no longer irate, reading an Italian newspaper and drinking something from a mug. The Brit was on a long leather couch. Did Romano dare approach him? He didn't yet know what to say to the man, how to apologize.

Before he stopped waffling England glanced up and met his eyes, then calmly turned back to the newspaper. No, Romano couldn't sit on that couch with him. Not while the island nation was still so cold. But – but there was a chair next to it. Within earshot. He walked over gingerly, clearing his throat. "Are you all right?" he started out. He slipped off his grey wool overcoat and threw it over the back of the chair before seating himself.

"Not bad," England replied, eyes not leaving the newspaper.

"Listen, I'm sorry." The words tumbled out of Romano in a rush. "I didn't realize how I was behaving. I – not until today. I – I'm sorry." He twisted his fingers together in his lap.

England folded the newspaper and set it down, picking up his mug and shifting to face the half-nation. Well, that was progress. "You didn't realize how you were behaving?" he asked in disbelief.

The brunet scowled. "That's not quite what I meant. I mean, I didn't think about how my actions might have come across. I am sorry."

"But you're thinking about it now?"

"Of course I am, bastard! I wanted to go to dinner with you, have a nice time, and you r-rejected me. I had to think about why."

"As if you didn't reject me? A series of nice dinners, and then you never speak to me again; to make matters worse, I had an entire year of hearing every nation in the world boast about how they'd been screwing you? But I wasn't good enough, apparently." His face was flaming red, but his angry green eyes held Romano's.

Fuck, fuck, that hadn't been it at all! "You – you weren't aggressive enough."

"So, what then? You've got some bloody stupid ideas about sex, Romano."

Dammit! How the hell could he explain this? Because he really did want England to understand what he was thinking. "Can I come sit next to you on the couch? I'd like to explain, but not if I have to talk very loud."

"Suit yourself." England put the mug down and shifted over with a frown between his impressive eyebrows.

Romano changed seats. "I – I had a dream," he began. No, he wouldn't talk about the sex part of it. He'd just explain why he'd done what he'd done. "I kept having this same dream over and over, and I decided I needed to try to find the other person in the dream. That's why I started coming to meetings. I didn't know anyone well enough, except France and Spain, and I knew they weren't the ones in the dream. Or, well, if they were, I didn't want them to be." He took a deep breath.

"Did you find the person?"

Romano shook his head. "No. I – I think it's time for me to admit it was just a goddamn dream, not some kind of fucking _mystic sign_. I haven't had it in a long time, anyway. Maybe six weeks? But – but I thought about all these nations I'd spent time with over the last year, and I realized that the only one I enjoyed being with on a non-uh, non-s-s-sexual level, was you." He felt his face turning red and stared across the room so he wouldn't need to meet the derisive gaze of the island nation.

"Nonsexual. Great."

"Th-that's not what I meant! I meant, the only person I – oh, screw it," he grumbled, not knowing how to recover the situation. He leaned forward, head in hands, and scowled. "I feel like I wasted an entire year on all those bastards."

After a short silence his companion began to speak in a calm tone of voice. "But everyone has something worthwhile to recommend them. Even if you just – er – slept with all of them, surely there must be something good to remember about each of them."

Romano nodded. "Even when I was searching, I remember thinking that. It's true."

"It sounds like you're maturing. When you can begin to analyze these things and admit the reality of them, not expecting everything to just 'mystically,' as you say, fall into place."

This was encouraging enough that Romano dared to peek at him. England was now sipping his drink again, looking out the café windows. "I hadn't thought of it that way," the brunet admitted.

"We need to make our own dreams." England's voice was wistful.

"'We'?" Did he mean he and Romano would make a dream together? That might be nice.

"We nations, we people. Those who get ahead in life are the ones who find their own dreams and make them come true. The losers always sit back and wait for fate to drop something into their laps."

At the truth of this statement, Romano nodded slowly. "I do see that. Make our own dreams." He wondered what that would actually mean in terms of his dream. To take what he wanted?

Before he could pursue this further, England's voice interrupted again. "I'd think you'd be pretty good at it. You probably get it from your grandfather, that desire to take what you want and make it yours. Like an insatiable wolf." He let out a little chuckle.

_Insatiable wolf_, Romano thought with excitement. I _can be the wolf!_ These words of England's sank deep into his consciousness, opening up new avenues of thought. "Make my own dream," he said quietly, once more.

When he glanced at the island nation again, England smiled at him. "I think you really are growing up."

Romano's stomach rumbled again. "If I asked you to have dinner with me now, would you say yes?"

The blond tilted his head to the side, considering. "Yes." That little smile was still on his face.

"I know a good little place." They both stood up and Romano took the mug back to the counter.

By the time he came back, England had shrugged into his red jacket. "It's a little colder here than I'd expected," he said conversationally, as Romano put on his overcoat.

"Don't worry. We don't have far to go."

When they got outside England put up his hood and they began to walk off. "Come this way, bastard," Romano said with a grin, taking his hand and pulling him towards a hidden path. "I know a shortcut through these woods."

…


	9. Exercise Is Good For You

_So, the other day, while I was running on the treadmill, my shoe came untied. I stopped to tie it, and spent the rest of the run thinking up a tiny plot._

…

**Exercise Is Good For You.**

Lovino stormed into his little apartment at the end of the day. His life totally sucked. Deadlines! Why couldn't he start his work early, so he didn't have to panic and get yelled at when he missed the fucking deadlines? He threw his briefcase onto the couch, not even caring whether the laptop inside might break or not.

That ugly-ass couch! Another annoyance in his life. Last year Lovino had gambled on the stock market…and lost. A lot. His instincts had been so bad that he'd had to sell his swank penthouse condo and move into this shabby garden apartment complex. Hadn't had a date since he'd lost all his money; hadn't even had time for a lunch break today. Had to ride the fucking _bus, _had to buy ramen noodles for dinner. Shit. His life was in the toilet, and the only thing he could think of to improve it was to get drunk.

Next to the couch, his treadmill stood accusingly. Yeah, yeah. He hadn't run on it for a while. Maybe if he ran first, the alcohol wouldn't make him so sick in the morning. Because he still had to go to work and finish the fucking project! Dammit, yeah, well, he'd run, and maybe the increased blood flow would improve his mood.

He changed into his exercise gear – black running shorts, a tomato-red t-shirt, socks and running shoes. Lovino then turned on the treadmill and began to browse the internet on his cell phone as he ran. Mostly he was pretty successful when he tried this, and it stopped him being bored and cutting the workout short as a result.

Once in a while he checked the treadmill's display; still half a workout to go. These new shoes were the wrong size, he now realized. He'd only run in them once or twice before, and they hadn't seemed to be a problem, but the left one definitely felt too big. He glanced down and saw the lace was untied. Lovino decided to ignore it. He was certainly coordinated enough to – "Chigi!" He lost his footing and tripped, falling and twisting his leg before landing on his knees on the hardwood floor. "Oh, dammit," he moaned quietly, sinking to the floor and trying to roll over.

Fuck; his shoelace was stuck in the side of the damn machine! He yanked the shoe off his foot and rolled back onto all fours in order to stand up – but he felt a sickening pain in his right knee and almost passed out.

Now what? Lovino fell back onto the floor, sweating, pale, and in too much pain to curse or even cry. Right. He was strong and determined; he could do this. He lay in place for another minute and then yanked the treadmill cord out of the socket. At least he could stop that fucking whirr while he got himself together.

After the short rest he tried again with the same result. Such a strong pain! What if he'd broken something? Wildly he looked around and spotted his phone on the floor just a few feet away. He didn't want to call 911 – and he certainly didn't want to tell some random stranger just what the hell had happened – but if he had to stay on the fucking floor until some bastard from work checked up on him tomorrow morning, he'd be dead.

So he inched over to the phone, managing not to aggravate the pain in his leg too much. No, he wouldn't dial 911; this wasn't an _emergency_ so much as an impossible situation. He used the browser to find the local Fire and Rescue number and telephoned them.

When he'd explained what happened, the cheerful man on the other end of the line gave him hearty reassurances. "Just stay where you are, dude. We'll bring the ambulance over and get you to the hospital! Just wait for the heroes!"

"Cheh, yeah, whatever." Lovino disconnected and lay back on the floor. Dammit, now he'd have to deal with a bunch of EMT bastards in his apartment. He lived on the third floor! How would they get him out of here on a stretcher?

How would they even get in the apartment? The door was locked. The pain in his leg was worsening, but he really hoped they'd remember to get the key from the apartment office. He didn't want to have to pay for a new fucking door, or risk all his shit getting stolen while he was out. He blew out an angry breath and tried to ignore the pain while he waited.

…

After what seemed like forever, Lovino heard that same voice call out, "Hey, Mr. Vargas?"

"Right here," he managed to croak. At least he hadn't heard an axe splintering the door.

Three blond men entered the room. One pushed a rattling gurney; one, a grinning blond bastard with glasses, swung a set of keys from a finger, and the third (with big dark eyebrows) scurried to Lovino's side and opened an emergency kit. "Right, Mr. Vargas," he said in a soothing English voice. "Just stay calm. Have you moved the injured leg?" His green eyes were soft and concerned as he looked at Lovino's pale face; the brunet began to relax.

"Just a little. I – I tried to stand up, and then I had to crawl over here to get the fucking phone." What an ass he was. He'd just bet these bastards would go home and laugh about this. He reached up to cover his face in his embarrassment.

"Don't worry, man," the key guy said. "Artie will immobilize the leg and then we'll put you on this thing and wheel you out there. Ivan's super strong, and he and I can carry the gurney down the steps. Okay? Just hang in there."

"Heroic git," the Englishman muttered irritably as he put a makeshift splint on Lovino's leg. The brunet almost laughed at that comment. The cool hands were deft against his skin, maneuvering the splints and bandages without hurting him too much. He was glad this bastard was the one helping him. He had a good bedside manner. (Lovino felt himself blushing at that but bit his lip, hoping anyone who noticed would attribute it to the pain.) Way better than that blabby fucker with the keys, who was standing around bullshitting with the other guy, and not paying attention at all.

"My name is Arthur," the blond mentioned absently, packing away the spare bandages.

"H-hi. I'm Lovino."

When Arthur smiled he looked really young and friendly. "I know! You called _us,_ remember? Now, I'm going to give you some painkillers. They probably won't do much, but it's standard procedure, and maybe psychologically it will help. Are there glasses in the kitchen?" When Lovino nodded, Arthur turned to the other two bastards. "Oi, Alfred! Get a glass of water, will you?"

"Sure thing, dude. Leave it to the hero!"

"How did you get in?" Lovino managed to ask, as he felt Arthur's arm bracing him into a sitting position.

The bastard with the scarf finally spoke. "Spoke to the management. That lady is very nosy, da?" He laughed a little. "But at least she let us in."

Alfred brought the water; Lovino took the pills. "Okay," he muttered. "Uh – can you make sure we lock the door when we leave? And somebody find my keys and wallet?"

"Got them," Ivan called from the kitchen. "Here, Arthur; you lock up, since I'll be carrying the gurney."

Arthur took the keys and wallet, stowing them in the spacious pockets of his EMT jacket. "Now Ivan and Alfred will put you on the gurney, all right? Don't worry about your leg. It's immobilized; it shouldn't hurt any more than it already does – unless they drop the bloody thing while going down the stairs," he snorted.

Lovino laughed unexpectedly at that. "Wh-what about you?"

"I drive the ambulance. Which hospital did you want to use?"

He named his preferred hospital, but reached out to clutch Arthur's sleeve. "Can – can one of them drive?"

"Of course." The surprised Arthur blinked. "All of us have the proper license to operate it. Why do you ask?"

He felt his face burning again but had to ask. "Will you stay with me? Please?" He felt so weak and adrift, and the painkillers had begun to make him feel a little woozy already. "Please?"

"Yes, of course I will." Arthur's voice was quiet and calm. "Hey, wankers, let's get him out of here. One of you will have to drive." He slipped his hand into Lovino's, and the brunet felt a reassuring pressure on it as the other two bundled him up and headed out the door.

…

Lovino didn't remember anything from the time they arrived at the hospital. When he awoke the next morning, starving and aching, the only thing he could remember was Arthur's presence at his side, riding in the back of the ambulance, the sarcastic English voice keeping him focused and amused with commentary about Alfred's driving, the hospital décor, even the dangers of treadmills. Lovino hadn't felt like much of an ass by the time they'd gotten to the hospital, because Arthur (holding his hand securely through the whole ride) had been so laid back about it all.

He'd quite enjoyed telephoning the office and telling them what had happened, and getting some fucking sick leave out of this mess. Someone else would be deputed to scramble and finish his work soon, and he was totally off the hook! Except he would be lame for a while yet.

When they discharged him, with a set of crutches and a list of instructions as long as his arm, he splurged on a cab ride so he wouldn't need to try to maneuver the damn crutches on a city bus. "Please stop at the firehouse ahead," he asked the driver, when they got close. He – he wanted to thank those bastards, especially Arthur. He wondered whether they'd remember him, and then snorted. It had only been two days. "I'll be right out," he told the driver. "Please wait for me." The man helped him get out and handed him the crutches, and he hobbled in through the front door.

That strong bastard – Ivan – was playing solitaire at a little kitchen table. "Hello! How is the leg?" he asked.

"I – uh – it's going to be fine. I just wanted to stop by and thank all of you."

"That's very thoughtful. Not many people think to do that."

"Are the others here? Alfred, and A-Arthur?"

"Nyet. Alfred's out at the donut shop and Arthur doesn't come on duty again until Sunday."

Lovino was pissed that he'd missed them both, but the cab was waiting; he couldn't hang around. "Please give them both my thanks."

"Da, I will. Take care!" Ivan began dealing a new round of solitaire, and Lovino headed back to the cab. M-maybe he'd come back on Sunday.

…

Well, _fuck._ How the hell was he supposed to get up three flights of stairs on crutches? Just as he was about to start cursing, someone behind him cleared his throat. "Hello?"

At the sound of the English voice Lovino's frustration drained away and he turned in place as best he could. "Bastard! What are you doing here?" He grinned in amazement. Maybe Ivan had telephoned him?

Arthur smiled a confused little smile. "I went to the hospital to see how you were, and they told me you'd been discharged. I – er – I wondered whether you might need any help."

"Shit, yeah. I can't get up the stairs on my own," he admitted. Then he noticed Arthur was carrying a white plastic grocery bag. Maybe he'd been on his way home and had dropped by.

"I can certainly help with that. Hm. Let me run up and set this outside your door, and I'll be right back down."

"Sure. I'll wait." Lovino watched him take the stairs two at a time, and wondered if Arthur was this attentive to everybody they helped.

When the blond had thundered back down the steps he took the crutches and braced Lovino on the side with the bad leg. "Nice and easy," he said, in his soothing voice, encouraging the injured Italian up the steps carefully.

"What's in the grocery bag?" Lovino was trying to keep his mind off the pain – he was due more painkillers shortly – and the embarrassing fact that he practically needed to be carried up to his apartment.

To his surprise Arthur blushed and stammered. "I – er, well, I – I didn't think you'd have had time to stop at the store, and you might not have anything to eat in the house. So I picked up some dinner for you. It – it's just curry, but I hoped you'd like it."

"You really are a thoughtful bastard."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Now Arthur looked affronted. But they'd reached Lovino's door, so conversation stopped while he fumbled for his keys.

"Ah, it's just a stupid word. I got in the habit at college, because there were so many real bastards around, and now it's just something I can't break myself of saying, though I usually only say it to fr-friends." He felt a little ridiculous about that – he and Arthur barely knew each other – but then he thought it would be useful if they did become friends, so he let it stand.

"Then that's all right. Come in; where would you like to sit? Or do you want to go to bed? I can put the food in the fridge for you before I go."

"I can stay up for a little while. W-will you stay and eat with me? Did you bring enough for both of us?"

Arthur beamed at him, once again looking so young and friendly and not the austere EMT that had splinted up his leg so efficiently. "I brought enough. Thank you for asking." They settled Lovino on his ugly-ass couch and he directed Arthur around the kitchen until two plates and two big glasses of water were ready, and then they ate.

By the time they finished, Lovino had unexpectedly shared a lot about his life, and had learned a lot about his new friend, too. Arthur, just a year older, was a real estate agent by day, a job that had always seemed a bit dicey to the brunet. "What happens when nobody wants to buy any of your houses?"

"There are good times and bad. I just save my money during the good times and use it during the bad ones."

Seemed sensible. Still, Lovino was now a lot more thankful for his regular, fixed employment…with medical coverage!

"I'm going to go to bed now," he decided, after another hour or so. "Thank you for taking the time to check up on me. It – it was nice to talk to you." He was only a little bit worried. What if Arthur was some kind of weirdo and wouldn't go?

"You're welcome." The blond shook his hand. "Take care of yourself." He left with a wave, and Lovino headed to his restful bed.

…

Over the next few weeks Arthur checked up on him attentively every few days, until he was all healed. All the evenings that they spent together made Lovino feel relaxed and interested in something else for a change, instead of dwelling on his own sucky life. Once or twice, when he felt strong, they headed out for coffee, or to a movie, but generally they just sat around his place and shot the shit for a couple of hours. He still felt embarrassed about his ugly, cheap apartment and crappy furniture, but Arthur never really seemed to notice it.

"I should be off the crutches next week."

"Good news! Then – then you can start getting out and about on your own."

Was this finally the brush-off? He'd wondered how long this attentiveness would last. "Pfft," he scoffed, trying to sound disinterested. "I don't do much on my own." But his heart sank.

"Why not? You live in a great area. Do you have a bicycle? Riding would be fun; the weather's changing. There's also a hiking trail just a few blocks away. It would do you good to get out in the fresh air and exercise the leg, you know. Exercise is good for you."

"Eh, nobody likes to hike alone, bastard." His mouth twisted into a grimace as he turned away.

"Well, then? Don't be a git. Ask somebody to go with you!"

When he turned back Arthur had the most fake smile he'd ever seen, and he burst out laughing. "Yeah, all right, you moron. Will you go for a walk with me on my hiking trail, when I'm off the crutches?"

"I'd be delighted."

…

Months went by; Lovino and Arthur spent a lot of time together nowadays, when the blond wasn't showing houses or on EMT duty. Hiking, dinners, movies, even shopping was more fun together. The brunet didn't even mind his work shit so much anymore, because he knew he'd be seeing his friend soon and having fun. Things were looking up.

He thought about this one day when he was alone at home; Arthur was busy with volunteer work that night. It was so easy and cool just to bullshit with the blond bastard; even if Lovino said something stupid, Arthur either laughed, or said something stupid right back at him. There was never any stress at all between them, just ridiculous arguments and a lot of laughter. When he thought about it some more, he realized that was just the kind of relationship he'd want to have with a girl, but had never been able to find one who made him feel so - so _alive_.

Not that he ever really thought about dating much anymore. He couldn't imagine telling a girlfriend that he would be busy playing soccer with Arthur and the other firehouse bastards, for example. Pfft. No matter how relaxed and accommodating this mythical girlfriend would be, he was certain she wouldn't stand for that, over and over. No. No point in looking for a date. Not yet, anyway.

So they went on as they were, sharing, laughing, looking out for each other.

One day Lovino walked down to the fire station; Arthur was on duty, and he knew it got boring for all these bastards if there were no calls. "Hey," he called out to his friend, who was scowling at the back door. "What's the matter?"

They were alone for the moment. Arthur dropped his voice but stayed staring at the door. "Bloody Alfred's trying to get me to go on a date again."

This brought so many thoughts into Lovino's head that he couldn't react. "Y-you're gay?" finally popped out after an uncomfortable silence. But that would be – if he – if Arthur – they –

The Brit kicked the door of his locker. "Pfft. Alfred seems to think I am. I'm pretty bloody conflicted about it."

"S-same here," Lovino blurted out, his heart pounding, and Arthur's head whipped around. "Wh-why don't we find out together?" Before he could chicken out, he leaned forward, brushing a bumbling, inaccurate kiss near those English lips.

Arthur recoiled. "Eh? Are you – are you mocking me?" But his face was adorably red, and Lovino smiled at him, feeling more secure already.

"You know I wouldn't do that. We're so close already. Why not try a – a date? Like an experiment. We – we could see if we liked being with each other that way. I-if it didn't work out, it'd be fine, you know? We'd still be friends, do shit together." He watched his friend's face change from confusion to acceptance, even to happiness, and he knew he'd made the right decision. "Come on, don't make me stand here and beg you, bastard." He very badly wanted to kiss Arthur again, more thoroughly, more _privately_, because here came damn Alfred, already reaching into his donut box to pull one out.

"Hey, Artie. Hi, Lovino. Have a donut." He held the box out, stuffing the other one into his mouth and grinning as he chewed.

"No thanks, wanker. Got something tastier on offer." The now-grinning Arthur reached out and pulled Lovino close, and they shared their first real kiss right under the amazed eyes of the hero, whose donut fell out of his mouth and rolled under the desk, unheeded.

…

After Arthur's volunteer shift ended, they walked hand-in-hand to Lovino's place, making all sorts of plans. Sitting on his tiny balcony, they stayed close, holding each other and enjoying the late summer air. He finally got up his nerve to ask a question that had been on his mind for months. "Why did you take such good care of me, when I got hurt? I thought maybe you were like that with everyone, but now I know you're not."

Arthur looked up into the darkening sky. "You really want to know?"

"Idiot! I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

The blond couldn't fight his grin. "Because you looked so bloody sexy in those little black running shorts."

Both of them began laughing at that, and Lovino kissed him again, knowing everything would be fine.


End file.
